


Thumbprint Scar

by FrostbitePanda



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cattle Ranch, Cowboys, Dany is on the run, F/M, Here we go, Horses, If that's your thing - Freeform, POV Multiple, Romance, broken people finding each other and healing, i'm officially doing this, lets just call it 'medium burn', lots of dealing with feelings and pasts, lots of lengthy descriptions of mountains, mentions of gangs, nothing too zany but be warned, olenna is a fucking riot i love her, olenna runs a home for broken misfit toys, slow burn?, small town, some rough sex, some violence, the criminal underbelly, there will be smut, there's an old movie theatre, two loners looking for home
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-03-02 18:58:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 93,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13324446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda
Summary: For so long, she had only dreamed about getting away, never of what that place might be. It wasn't until it had started to become a reality, to solidify under her hands, that she started to paint details into the visions of her sanctuary in earnest.(Modern AU. Dany finds some semblance of a home in the tiny town of Winterfell, Montana.)





	1. WINTER, I

 

The little heater groaned away from under the counter and she shifted on her stool, her back already twinging. She had to remember to bring a pillow or something— or ask Tyrion to spring for a proper fucking chair. 

 

She tilted her head, squinting at the sketch she had just finished with some dissatisfaction. The curve of the horn just was  _ not _ right. She leaned forward, scrubbing her eraser over the paper and it beaded and peeled under her enthusiastic attentions. She blew out a frustrated breath and turned to a fresh page in defeat. 

 

She looked up at the sound of someone clearing their throat to see a male-shaped silhouette carved away from the spill of evening sun sinking from behind the man’s shoulder. 

 

“Sorry,” she said, a bit perturbed, as she turned down the dusty boombox plying her tiny booth with the dulcet tones of The Supremes. “Can I help you?”

 

He cleared his throat again, breath puffing before him. He shifted to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of her through the glare of the sun that no doubt shone from the glass. “Um, one for  _ Manchester By The Sea _ , please.”

 

Dany quirked an eyebrow as she punched the order into the ancient, yellowed computer that possibly predated herself. Her and Missandei had watched said film yesterday (it had been dreadfully slow) and both had cried and sulked for at least half the day. 

 

“Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. New in town?” 

 

Dany was well used to this question by now, and also well tired of it. She passed the ticket to the shadowed stranger under the lip of glass. “Can you even see me?” she asked instead.

 

“Well, no, not really.” He took the ticket and paused. “Usually see Missy here, is all.” 

 

_ This must be the one that Missy warned me about _ . “Stuck with me, I’m afraid.” She paused, regarding him with a suspicious brow as she made his change. “Are you Theon Grey?”

 

The man halted, a bit taken aback as he gathered up the bills from the counter. “No,” he replied, voice tilted in curiosity. “Work with him though. Didn’t know he liked movies.”

 

“I don’t think the movies are what brings him here,” she replied simply. “According to Missy, at any rate.”

 

He paused, before hanging his head. “Oh,” he sighed in a knowing sort of way. “Well… it was nice to meet you…?”

 

“Dany.”

 

“Dany,” he repeated. “I’m Jon,” he said with a nod, brushing his thumb over the rim of his hat. “Have a nice day.”

 

“Have a nice day,” she returned as he made his way into the theatre, intrigued. Demographics in Winterfell were majorly skewed to the geriatric, so anyone she came across that seemed even remotely close to her age was well-noted. She had assumed she had met— or at least knew of— all said specimens already.

 

She puffed out a sigh of boredom as she returned to her sketch. 

 

+++ 

 

For so long, she had only dreamed about getting away, never of what that place might be. It wasn't until it had started to become a reality, to solidify under her hands, that she started to paint details into the visions of her sanctuary in earnest. 

 

She thought up someplace with color. Riots of flowers, black bark and yellow hay. Where the air smelled… different— grass and sweet rot, bergamot and woodsmoke. A place with goats and chickens and huge, ancient trees she could feel small as a speck under. 

 

She supposed this would do, all things considered. It was leagues better than the other three shitpiles she had left behind, at any rate. She’d like someplace a bit warmer, and maybe just a smidge fewer chickens. The vociferous, flashy old rooster was also a surprise.

 

But you can't really beat a pittance for rent and relative anonymity, no matter the unwanted early mornings.

 

“You came just at the right time,” Miss Olenna had said with a smile as she had lead her to her room, just two weeks before. “Just got the toilet installed last month.” Dany still was not sure if the old woman had been joking or not. In Winterfell, Montana, she wasn't really sure of  _ anything _ .

 

She did not want to use the word  _ quaint _ . She always thought it a dismissive, small word. But, well, there was a reason for the word’s existence she supposed. 

 

In many ways, Winterfell was typical Small Town, USA. It boasted two stop lights, a town hall, and a white church spire to complete the look.

 

Within a few weeks, she had the place pretty well figured out. 

 

Or, she thought she did.

 

+++ 

 

It was Thursday night, and on Thursday nights, Miss Olenna cooked for the boarding house. 

 

Well,  _ she _ didn’t cook, per say (“I have no patience for stirring and chopping and all that mess.”). She employed a cook for herself, but generally speaking, you were on your own when it came to feeding yourself, but on Thursday nights no one had to worry about dinner.

 

The Tyrell house was a sprawling, three-story, two hundred year-old mansion on ten acres of rolling, grassy slopes, about twenty minutes south of Winterfell proper. It was a grand old palace (“in the Queen Anne style, the ostentatious tart.”) and boasted nine bedrooms and six bathrooms. A study, breakfast room, parlour, an enormous kitchen and airy solarium took up the main floor, all wrapped with a pillared and corniced porch that was almost as large as the house itself. The cozy little carriage house at the back of the property belonged to Tyrion, who paid more for the privilege.    

 

The place was once pristine, but had fallen into some disrepair since Olenna’s grandchildren had moved away a few years ago. The rust-red paint was peeling, some of the beautiful wood detail rotting away. An owl had taken up residence in one of the many chimneys and the plumbing was slowly falling apart. 

 

Residents of the Tyrell Boarding House were expected to help with the slow, incremental restoration of the mansion as well as the care of the near-menagerie of animals Olenna sheltered almost as lovingly as her “unwanted, broken, misfit toys” that she claimed as her boarders. The more you labored, the less rent you paid-- thus rent was often infuriatingly unpredictable. One month it could be upwards of two hundred dollars because “you were missing for wainscoting day”. The next could be a carton of Nat Sherman’s from the fancy smoke shop a town over. 

 

Most weekends saw Dany rubbing a sore back as she sanded a window frame gone to rot or carried debris to Gendry’s pickup. 

 

Olenna claimed often and loudly that opening her home to boarders had been nothing more than a “frugality”. That with her grandchildren gone off to “do what young people do” she simply  _ had _ to get people to help her with the house  _ somehow _ . 

 

The longer Dany lived here, the more she came to doubt this claim. She probably would never get a straight answer from the woman, but Dany suspected the real reason resided between her paradoxical fondness of people and her habit of being a homebody. The woman did not seem to hurt for cash, though she did reject many of the “dull trappings and fussiness” that would normally surround a woman of her standing and wealth. And she was known to pull a shotgun or two on any person fool enough to mess with one of her “girls”.

 

Olenna did not discriminate, taking in tenets of either sex, but it was not a secret that she harbored a soft spot for women and women for her. 

 

The decor was… eclectic, to say the least. Olenna seemed trapped between the power of sentiment and a hatred of “dusty old strops and their frills and doilies”. Old oil paintings of hunting dogs and stern-faced ancestors were often bordered by Olenna’s own, more modern charcoal drawings that she toiled over in the solarium-- between trips to her hot-house and the wine cellar, of course. And spindly, curvy Victorian couches would often be paired with funky mid century side tables. 

 

Dany often marvelled at her good fortune at finding such a place-- especially now, sat in a cushy chair with a belly full of roasted chicken and buttered peas, sipping a Spanish red that Olenna claimed was older than she was. Dany doubted this seriously-- everyone knew that the old woman saved the best stuff for herself. 

 

“You’ve outdone yourself, Olenna,” Tyrion said with a contented sigh as he sipped his wine. 

 

“I’ve done no such thing, and I’ll have you know that that will be your last glass. That’s a fine wine your slugging down, not a glass of grape juice.”

 

Tyrion slid sardonic eyes over to Dany, sitting next to Olenna and across from him. Dany suppressed a laugh with the edge of her wine glass. 

 

Tyrion Lannister was the oldest tenant of Olenna’s— both in age and time of residence. He’d been here nearly four years. He was the local “neurotic”, picking fights with crusty old truckers and dusty young cowboys. His buying of the old theatre did little to deter such a reputation, brazenly screening bleak films with subtitles and “distasteful violence and nudity” in a town that had little demand for such “vulgarities”. He came from old money, Dany knew, but had yet to wrangle much more of his past. She assumed he was fleeing something— much like everyone else who lived in the Tyrell house. 

 

“What is the project this weekend, Olenna?” Missandei asked from the end of the massive, clawfoot dining table. 

 

Missandei, by contrast, was the youngest tenant of the house, but had been here nearly a year when Dany had moved in. The willowy brunette had been the one to open the door for her when Dany had showed up unannounced, clutching nothing but her bags and boxes and the flyer she had ripped from the church bulletin. They had become friends almost immediately. 

 

“Pulling up those damn rose bushes near the north tower,” Olenna said crossly. “I feel like we’ll never be done with it. My damned ancestors and their damned obsession with roses.”

 

Dany looked up to the handsome wood bar across from her, where an elaborate rose blossom was carved into the molding over the mirrored back. Roses were indeed everywhere— delicately mullioned in stained glass windows, carved into door frames and bannisters. Olenna seemed hell-bent on eradicating them all. 

 

“Sounds like a job for Gendry,” Tyrion quipped as he leaned back in his chair. The man in question spread his hands in outrage at Tyrion. 

 

Dany knew next to nothing about the taciturn young man. He was near to Missy’s age and worked at the Stark Ranch and others around the area as a farrier. He was hardly ever home and kept to himself when he was. 

 

“Sounds like a job for  _ you _ . You’re closer to the ground after all,” Olenna returned with a sniff. “Besides, you aren’t allowed to delegate so much as where my residents fart, you lazy oaf. You don’t do a lick of work around this dump.” 

 

Tyrion looked thoroughly unruffled, finishing his wine and placing his glass back down on the table. “I do believe I pay handsomely for the privilege of being a lazy oaf.”

 

“Never said I was judging you, only pointing out that you’re not the boss here,” she turned to Gendry. “As much as I hate to admit that the little shit is right, can we count on you and those young muscles Saturday my dear?”

 

Gendry shook his head, trying his best to look as sorry as possible. Dany snorted into her wine. “I’m sorry Miss Olenna, but I have to be on the ranch-- re-shoeing the horses.” 

 

“All of them?” Olenna asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

 

Gendry glanced away. “Some of them.”

 

“You’re lucky you’re a terrible liar boy,” Olenna said with a sigh. “Else I’d almost think you were trying to get out helping an old woman and three young girls with hard labor.” Gendry wilted, looking down at his hands. “Stop looking like I killed your cat,” Olenna said as she poured herself more wine. “Bring the girl, if you must. You know the rules.” 

 

Dany flitted through Olenna’s… interesting house rules that she had memorized as good as the old woman’s cell phone number.

 

_ Tyrell House Rule Number Two: Houseguests are like friends-- don’t keep them around if they don’t work for it.  _

 

Apparently, it was rumored that Gendry was at the Stark Ranch all the time for other reasons than simply the horses. 

 

“I think we can do it ourselves, Miss Olenna,” Gilly piped up from where she had been looking near to nodding off in her chair. 

 

Gilly had been there for over a year when Dany moved in. She had also proven to be unfailingly kind and hopeful, despite the dark past that she was running from. The other tenants’ were quite cagey about the demons that lay in their histories, but Gilly was shockingly open about her own. Dany admired her immensely.

 

“Ever the optimist, my dear,” Olenna said with a smile. “Fine, we shall get along without you, boy, but you’ll be paying for it.” She stood and stretched. “Now, anyone for a spot of brandy and backgammon?”

 

+++

 

“I think I owe you one.”

 

He paused from putting his billfold away, obviously taken aback. “Owe me one?”

 

Dany squinted against the falling sun, wishing that she could at least  _ see _ him, for fuck’s sake. “Missy says Theon hasn’t been back here in since last week.”

 

His shoulders slumped, visibly relaxing. “Oh,” He said quietly. “Theon is harmless mostly, but he’s an oblivious asshole sometimes… most of the time.” He scratched the back of his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

 

Dany smiled. “Well thanks for straightening him out at any rate.”

 

+++

 

Cat’s convenience store was the closest thing Winterfell had to a proper grocery store. It wasn't horrible, but its selection definitely left something to be desired. Any proper greens or meat had to be hauled from the supermarket two towns over. 

 

Most of the packaged goods were stale at best and dusty at worst. Cat Stark tried her best, making egg salad or deviled ham sandwiches most every morning, wrapped in cellophane and placed in a little basket next to the beer in the cooler. It was also, sadly, the local coffee shop-- a little corner in the back with a Bunn machine older than herself complete with red stir straws, styrofoam cups, and powdered creamer. She often stashed the stir straw in her purse to clean under her nails. It was honestly the best thing about the unfortunate set up, but she swallowed down the burnt, watery dregs down almost daily anyway.

 

In truth, it was less useful for its original purpose than its unintended one-- to pick up the local paper (another, charming anachronism of the town) and gossip with the shop owner and locals alike.

 

She was in tonight for some dismal excuse for a dinner. She was feeling dull and despondent after a particularly slow day at work and did not much feel like wrangling with the locals at Hot Pie’s or navigating one of Tyrion’s drunken rants this evening. 

 

She bit her lip, squinting at the selection of Cup ‘O’ Noodles before deciding that it was pointless in being picky. She raked four of them into her basket, heading to the candy section for something sweet to snack on during her shift tomorrow.

 

She stopped mid-stride at the sound of a familiar voice. 

 

“You know you shouldn’t judge your customers, Sam-- that can’t be good for business.”

 

“I’m just saying,” Sam answered as he pulled the man’s purchases towards the scanner. “You work on a damn cattle ranch, Jon. You’d think you had enough jerky.”

 

“You clearly don’t know how much jerky Arya can go through in a week.”

 

Dany must have slowly stepped forward beyond her awareness because Sam perked up from behind the counter. “Oh hey Dany! How are you tonight? Don’t usually see you around here in the evenings.”

 

Dany felt instant mortification, now regretting all those conversations she and Sam had found themselves exchanging about  _ Lord of the Rings _ many a sleepy morning over tepid cups of coffee before her shifts at the theatre. He was making his way through the trilogy for the first time. She had read it twice. 

 

The familiar-voiced stranger turned around, empty basket swinging from his elbow. “Dany?” he asked. 

 

“Um, hi,” she responded lamely, completely caught off guard. The whole point in coming here was to avoid conversation and she was now staring at quite an unexpectedly pleasant face with black eyes and a distracting mouth. She became sorely aware of her unwashed tee, her too-big sweats, and her hastily done-up little nub of a ponytail at the top of her head. “Do I know you?” she hedged. 

 

“Oh, sorry,” he said hastily, also stunned. Dany wasn’t going to flatter herself too much in thinking that it was because of her. He stuck out a gloved hand. “I’m Jon, the weirdo from the theatre.”

 

Dany felt herself relax as she offered him a small smile and shook his hand. “Do you often introduce yourself as a weirdo?” 

 

“He just assumes, since he is,” Sam chimed from the counter. “He’s learned to embrace it by now. Clears the air really.”

 

Jon turned away from her to presumably give Sam a withering glance. 

 

“How do you two know each other?” Sam asked. 

 

“She works at the theatre,” Jon answered. 

 

“Ah, yeah… duh,” Sam said, knocking himself on the head with his the heel of his hand. “Jon loves movies.”

 

Jon turned back to her. “It’s nice to finally put a face to a name.”

 

“Yeah,” she replied, awkwardness now properly taking hold. She cleared her throat. “How was  _ Moonlight _ ?”

 

“Great,” He said with a grin that was oddly disarming and she looked to her battered riding boots. “I was surprised that the theatre got it really.”

 

“Tyrion has… eclectic tastes,” she returned with a smirk. “He clearly isn’t interested in making money off the place.”

 

He laughed as he gathered his bags from the counter. “Well he gets what little I got.” He turned towards her and nodded. “Nice to properly meet you Dany. See you soon.” With that, he was out the door, a blast of icy wind following in his wake. 

 

“Jon and I have known each other for years,” Sam offered as he was wont to do as he rang her up.

 

“He seems very nice,” Dany returned flatly, her mood darkening, finding herself trapped in conversation now. 

 

“Oh definitely,” Sam said as he took her rumpled bills and change from her in some dismay. As a dutiful cashier, ill-tended bills raked on his usually stout nerves like nothing else seemed to do. Dany shrugged in apology and Sam shook his head. “It’s a shame that he’s treated so by Miss Catelyn. She’s lovely to everyone but him.”

 

“He works on the Stark Ranch?” Dany asked, interest piqued. 

 

The ranch was a sprawling swathe of immaculate Montana backcountry, boasting 10,000 head of the “finest damn steers on American soil” according to Tyrion’s assessment. The Starks were the unspoken royalty of the town, but she’d never heard the name ‘Jon Snow’ associated with the crown jewel of Winterfell before. “So he’s seasonal then?” She asked, thoroughly confused. “I mean, I don’t know shit about cattle farms but isn’t it a strange time for a seasonal job?”

 

Sam shook his head. “Oh no, he’s their head cowhand… though Cat doesn’t like that very much.”

 

“Head _ cowhand _ ?” She had not the slightest clue what such a title entailed… but it sounded important. Important enough that she would have at least  _ heard _ of the man who held such sway on the Stark Ranch. 

 

Sam opened his mouth to reply when the bell over the door chimed and in walked a rumpled and sullen looking fellow with quite a scar over one side of his face. Dany gathered up her Twizzlers and ramen and bid her friend a hasty farewell. 

 

She walked to Miss Olenna’s beat up Datsun, thinking over this mysterious cowboy and his dark eyes. 

 

+++ 

 

Winter wore on. Snow and sleet dogged the town seemingly every other day and the already sleepy town of Winterfell became even sleepier. Work around the house pushed inward-- regrouting the handsome, colorful tile in the huge kitchen or decorating the ridiculously large Douglas fir that Tyrion bought for the house for Christmas. “Damnit Tyrion, Thanksgiving hasn’t even been dealt with!” Olenna had complained as she dutifully hung the the tinsel. 

 

The theatre was abysmally slow and Tyrion more drunk and obnoxious than usual. Dany’s sketchbook was already nearly full. 

 

Jon was seemingly the only patron they had the whole month of November. She became attuned to the racket of his circa 1970s Chevy pickup pulling into the alley next to the building. Always the same time of day, and always on Thursdays and Saturdays… at least at first. 

 

She’d once asked him why he was coming in more often, where he found the time to watch so many damn movies if he worked on a cattle ranch. He had laughed, had told her that things were slow on the ranch, that he needed some “goddamned peace and quiet”. She wasn’t so sure if that was the whole story. 

 

She discovered that he knew nothing about Motown or the glory days of country music. He was maybe nearsighted and that seemed counterintuitive to his movie habit. He was also something of a  _ nerd _ , an example of which she did not think she would ever see in a place like this, in his particular line of work. She had made the mistake of asking him what his favorite movie was one evening and had to interrupt to tell him that his movie was about to start. 

 

She came to slowly realize that Jon was just as anachronistic as the rest of the town, though he was near her age. He never once handed her plastic to pay for his ticket and Dany started to think that she would not be at all surprised if he just kept his money stashed away in a sock drawer. His boots were old, but well-loved and she didn’t know anyone but the oldest of oldtimers who wore  _ gaiters _ anymore. She had to hold back her noise of surprise the time he had pulled out his phone-- it had actual fucking buttons.  _ Buttons. _

 

Such asceticism would have come off as pretentious and forcibly quirky in the city. Out here, in his line of work, it was simple, level-headed practicality. 

 

And so it went. She sat in her tiny ticket booth with her heater and her radio and he floated in and out of her life like a visiting spirit, with rough, off-color charm and dark, smiling eyes. 

 

Meanwhile, she had to prudently ignore her disappointment when one Thursday he didn’t show up. Or the small, warm bloom in the middle of her chest whenever he  _ did  _ show up when he wasn’t supposed to. 

 

+++ 

 

“What the hell is ‘gemstone studies’?” Missy asked as she flipped through the catalogue before her. 

 

“If I had to guess, I think it would be studying gemstones,” Dany replied dryly, turning the page of her own catalogue. She felt something hit her on the top of her head and sugar cube fell between her hands. 

 

“I  _ meant _ what could anyone do with such a class?”

 

“Use your imagination, Missy,” Dany said with an exaggerated sweep of her arm, highlighter clutched in her hand. “Think of all the  _ things _ you would know about  _ gemstones _ !”

 

Missy laughed, turning back to her catalog and the two women were silent again for a time. 

 

“I think Intro Political Science would be your best bet,” Dany offered, turning her catalog around with her finger pressed to the course in question. 

 

Missy scrunched her nose in distaste. “Sounds dull.” She shook her head. “Politics are god awful.”

 

Dany flipped her palms up on the table, ducking to meet her friend’s eyes. “Missy you speak like a thousand languages.”

 

“So?”

 

“ _ So _ ,” Dany pressed, feeling determined. “You are already more qualified to be a diplomat than probably half those old bags right now.”

 

Missy laughed, shaking her head again. In her years running from town to town, Dany had never formed a friend so quickly. She often thought of how it would hurt, if she had to leave this place behind.  

 

Missy was an outlier in the tiny town of Winterfell— stunningly beautiful and smart as whip to boot. She had escaped her life as a sex slave to some wealthy shitstain in the Ukraine during all the unrest a few years back and had been living as a vagabond ever since. Said wealthy shit stain _ did  _ like his “girls” smart, however, and Missy had used her ample free time and resources to her advantage. She knew more languages than Dany thought was humanly possible. 

 

The woman had been saving her paltry pay from the theatre for most of a year so that she could enroll in at least two classes at the community college an hour away. 

 

Her friend looked out the rain-slicked window, lips pursed in thought. “It does sound… I don’t know…  _ romantic _ doesn’t it?”

 

Dany barked a humorless laugh. “I certainly wouldn’t know.”

 

She felt the weight of her friend’s sympathetic eyes and she leaned forward to twine her fingers over her own, but said nothing. “At any rate,” Dany continued, forcing herself to sound light and happy once more. “When you inevitably get out this hellhole backwater and move to Peru or Monaco or wherever else, I will miss you terribly.”

 

Missy smiled sadly at her, opening her mouth to respond, when Gilly came over with the coffee pot. “Hey Gilly,” Dany greeted as the woman poured fresh brew into her mug. 

 

“Find anything good?” She asked, peering over the list of courses in front of Missy. 

 

“I think she should enroll in political science,” Dany answered. 

 

Gilly’s eyes widened at that. “Oh, that’s perfect Missy! You speak so many languages!”

 

Missy threw up her hands. “Why does everyone think that my language abilities and political science go so well together?”

 

Gilly shrugged and Dany smirked, triumphant, at her friend. 

 

“Well I guess that settles it!” Missy exclaimed, closing her catalog with a ‘snap’ and plopping two sugar cubes into her refilled mug. “We shall see what adventures await me in Political Fuckery 101.”

 

They all broke out into laughter and Gilly drifted away to attend to other customers. 

 

Hot Pie’s was unusually slow today— most afternoons at one o’clock you could barely fit at the counter, much less enjoy a booth without any neighbors. No town was complete without the local greasy spoon, and Winterfell was no exception. Hot Pie (Dany, and she suspected many other residents, did not know the man’s true name) was famous for his god-like cookery of a proper burger and the fresh, work of art pies he churned out by the dozen every day. Dany idly thought it was some small miracle that everyone in Winterfell wasn’t 300 pounds. 

 

Missy tapped a fingernail on the table. “This is two weeks without an appearance of creepy Theon,” she said with a smile. “I thought maybe the first week was just a one-off, but I think the asshole is gone for good now.”

 

Dany bit back a knowing grin, shifting in the hard plastic seat. Missy saw straight through her at once. “ _ You _ didn’t say anything to him did you?” she asked, leaning forward. “Makes sense that’s He’d go after you too, but he’s still a customer Dany—“

 

“I didn’t say anything to him,” Dany said, “I’ve never laid eyes on the jerk.”

 

“Then what the hell is that look on your face for?”

 

Dany paused, considering. “Do you know a man named Jon Snow?”

 

Missy blinked, as if Dany had asked her something exceedingly foolish. “Jon Snow?” Missy asked and Dany shrugged. “Dude who comes in around five on Thursdays and Saturdays?” Dany nodded. “Yeah of course I know Jon! Lovely man… in more ways than one,” she added with a wicked grin. 

 

“He’s the one who called off Theon.”

 

Missy paused, looking flummoxed. “Why would he do that?”

 

Dany shrugged. “My second day on the job he asked where you were. Thought he might’ve been your not-so-secret admirer. I asked him. He seemed confused. Told him that the movies might not have been what Theon was looking for. Next thing I knew, he wasn’t coming by anymore.”

 

“Well I’ll be damned,” Missy said, astonished as she leaned her forearms on the edge of the table. “I should thank him.”

 

“Already tried. I don’t think this is the first time he’s had to intervene.”

 

“Not surprised,” Missy said, sipping her coffee. She placed it down on the table, shifting in her seat and looking at her quite mischievously. “You know, Jon Snow is quite handsome.”

 

Dany looked down at her cuticles, a flush warming her ears. “I’ve noticed.”

 

“And  _ I’ve  _ noticed that he’s been coming in more often.”

 

Dany quirked an eyebrow at her friend, unimpressed. “You fancy him or something?”

 

Missy waved her hand. “Course not. You know my type, and Jon  _ is not _ it.”

 

“How could  _ he _ not be your type?” She blurted and then she felt a blush creep into her cheeks. 

 

Missy grinned, satisfied. “You  _ do _ like him.”

 

Dany rolled her eyes. “He’s a nice looking man who is around my age and isn’t a complete asshole, but that  _ does not _ mean—“

 

“Oh come on,” Missy complained. “How are you ever going to move on if you won’t give any man a chance ever again?”

 

Dany deflated, looking despondently at the steaming surface of the coffee she now clutched limply within her her fingers. She bit her lip, worrying a chip in the china with a thumbnail. 

 

She felt both of Missy’s hands clutch her forearm. “I’m sorry, Dany,” she said softly. “I don’t mean to sound so pushy. Your trauma and your pain is real and it’s powerful.” Her friend paused, falling back into her seat in regret as she released her arm. “I just— worry about you.”

 

Dany looked up at her friend through her lashes, feeling inexplicably ashamed. “You are a good friend Missy.”

 

She smiled, small and sad. “I only want you to be happy.”

 

“I don’t need a man to be happy,” Dany replied automatically, the phrase a well worn tick by now, a mantra she clutched to her sore heart like a talisman. Missy looked at her, eyes chiding, having heard this one too many times. Dany looked back at her mug and took a sip, sighing. “But you’re right.”

 

“So you’ll ask him out then?” Missy asked, carefully elated. 

 

“Fugitives can’t really afford to have boyfriends,” Dany replied sternly, eyes going cold . Missy looked at her despairingly, having heard this argument before. “Besides,” she continued, feeling oddly petulant, “if he liked me so much, I think he would’ve asked me by now.”

 

Missy shook her head assuredly. “I don’t know Jon very well, but he’s… well, he’s kind of an odd one. He might be waiting for your move.”

 

Dany felt a wave of anxiety crash through her like a rockslide at the prospect of asking a man out, of going on a  _ date _ , of doing anything remotely  _ normal _ . Ever since Drogo, ever since finally breaking free from her brother, the torment she knew from her father… she had been so weary of men it was almost a reflex by now. 

 

She cleared her throat and glanced at her friend, looking at her with something like hope in her face. She threw her eyes back down, studying the chipped Formica table, unwilling to squash Missy’s happiness just yet with her own, dogged cynicism. “We’ll see.”

 

+++

 

The truth was, she liked him. 

 

It had been so long since she had last been attracted to someone… she had failed to recognize it at first. 

 

The lack of interest in the opposite sex resulted from no conscious effort of her own. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. And with what Drogo had done to her, she wouldn’t be surprised if her appetite for men never returned. 

 

And Jon Snow had wandered unknowingly into her sights and she felt like she was pinned between the two traits she was perhaps best known for: taking what she wanted and protecting herself from that she did not.

 

She wanted to slip him her number under the glass along with his ticket. She wanted to go on stupid dates and learn about what exactly “cinematography” was and teach him about proper music. She wanted to  _ know _ about him-- what his favorite color was (she assumed black), how he got that almost offensively attractive scar over his eye, what his hair looked like out of that damn bun.

 

She wanted to trust him. She wanted to trust in his kindness, in his earnestness, in his passion. She wanted to trust that her brother would not try to come find her this time. She wanted to believe that she wouldn’t have to catch a bus to Missoula within 24 hours.

 

The truth was, she just couldn’t. 

 

+++ 

 

“Not one for Christmas music, huh?”

 

Dany blinked, looking up. “Sorry?” She answered automatically. 

 

“December usually means that I can’t seem to get away from the stuff.” It was Jon, this time fully visible against a backdrop of rumpled, gray cloud and the breaths of snowflakes. 

 

She turned down her radio a bit belatedly. Patsy Cline today. “Christmas music is fine,” she replied, “for a day. A whole month is a different matter altogether.”

 

He laughed. “I’m inclined to agree,” he said as he wrested his billfold from his heavy coat. “My stepmom loves the stuff.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically as she took his bills. “What’ll be today?”

 

“ _ La La Land _ , please.”

 

She quirked an eyebrow. “A musical?”

 

He lifted a shoulder. “Really loved his last film.”

 

“Ryan Gosling?” She asked, a bit loudly. 

 

He barked out another laugh. “No, the director.”

 

“Oh,” she replied, feeling oddly self conscious about not knowing who said director might be as she passed him his ticket. 

 

“You’re really going to judge me for seeing a musical?”

 

She flashed him a grin as she made his change. “If I did, would it stop you?”

 

He looked down at his hands, fiddling with his ticket stub as he smiled ruefully. 

 

“Have any plans for the holiday?” He asked, in a rush, tucking his hands in his pockets. Why was everything he did so damn distracting?

 

“Just dinner at Olenna’s.”

 

“I figured that might be where you were staying.” He winced, turning his face away. “Sorry, that sounded… weird.”

 

She felt an inexplicable thrill shoot up her spine— his words proving that he thought of her, even if it was in the most mundane of ways. “It’s a small town,” she reassured. “It’s either that or the Motel Six.”

 

He laughed again and she was momentarily terrified at how much she liked the sound of it. “Well, have a nice holiday, Dany.”

 

“We’re open Christmas Day, you know,” she found herself blurting as he turned away. “You know, in case you need an escape and there’s something here you haven’t seen already.”

 

A slow, joyful smile broke over his face and she couldn’t help the blush that warmed her cheeks. “I’ll keep that in mind, Dany.”

 

+++

 

Dany noticed the car after work that night.

 

It was parked across the street, in front of the long-boarded up drug store. A plain, green Camry. Late 90s model, maybe. Nothing strange-- except for the out-of-state plates. 

 

If being a on the run had taught her anything, it was to notice everything. And she was quite sure she had never seen a car like it before downtown. There were only so many. Parking in front of a closed up business was not exactly inconspicuous either.

 

“Hey, Dany!” Missy called from down the street where she had continued the path to her car. Dany blinked and looked to her friend who was holding up her hand and shaking her keys. “It’s fucking freezing!” 

 

Dany sighed, taking another last look at the car, before jogging to join her friend. 

 

+++ 

 

He slid the box under the lip of glass, looking nervous and flushed through the flurry of snow. “Sorry it’s not wrapped,” he said. “And late… but Merry Christmas.”

 

She stared down at the box of pens, mouth hung open, voice stuck in her throat, heart swinging like a wrecking ball between hopeless endearment and icy fear. She closed her hands over it and looked up at him. 

 

His eyes looked worried. “Uh, I remembered you saying you needed some… all your old ones were dried out.” He shifted on his feet, turning his eyes away. His breath puffed in front of him a bit faster now. “Are those… are they the right ones?”

 

“Yes,” she managed, voice small, staring unseeingly at the package with its riot of colors and the little dollar store bow taped at the top. She bit her lip. 

 

“I uh--” he began shakily, clearly panicking now, “I’m sorry if--”

 

“You don’t want to do this Jon,” she said, pushing the box back to him slowly. “You don’t want to do this with me.” She looked up at him, willing herself fierce, steady, ready to strike a killing blow. “I can’t.”

 

The way his face fell almost broke her. He nodded, defeated, something in the gesture arrested, expectant. He pushed the pens back to her. “Keep it.” His voice was rough, fogged with a freshly snuffed hope that made her chest tighten like a vise. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, turning away, forgetting his ticket, his change. 

 

+++

 

_ So it's true, I've gone too far to find you _ __  
_ And the thumbprint scar I let define you _ __  
_ Was a myth I made you measure up to _ _  
_ __ It was all just water, winding by you

“I Am All That I Need / Arroyo Seco / Thumbprint Scar” -- Fleet Foxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. So. This happened.
> 
> This story is my baby and has served my refuge when 'Ozymandian' was being too difficult for me. 
> 
> Just as a disclaimer, I do not have intimate knowledge of small towns, Montana, or cattle ranches. I like researching and immersing myself in places I've never lived and in lives I'll never live, but I know that is bound to be not enough. As such, any nit-picky little details... keep 'em to yourself. Anything glaring is more than up for correction/insight.
> 
> Of course, that doesn't stop me from tapping a primary source-- my great friend [Sparkles59](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkles59/pseuds/sparkles59) who has patiently talked me through some of the more... finer points of ranch life. Also, I have to thank [Ashleyfanfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkles59/pseuds/sparkles59) for unashamedly goading me on and just generally being a sweet dear (and for the awesome aesthetic!! Look at it!) Finally, thanks Fleet Foxes, for setting the perfect mood for this fic.
> 
> I have about four chapters of this written. I'm hoping to update every other Tueday, but will certainly update sooner if able. Hope y'all enjoy. PLEASE tell me what you think, because I don't even really know what to think of it.


	2. WINTER, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it was like ignoring a crack in the windshield-- growing fraction by fraction with each day until it spread its spindly arms right through your line of vision. She nearly threw her sketchbook out the window of her booth one afternoon (a Thursday) when she realized that she had sketched out his truck without her realizing it until she had filled in the details of the wheels.

 

 

It had been twelve days since she had seen him. 

 

“He knows you don’t work Sundays and Mondays,” Missy had said simply to her one week after her self-implosion. 

 

“Has he seen  _ Hidden Figures _ yet?” Dany had asked glumly. He had talked of little else since he saw the trailer attached to  _ La La Land _ .

 

“Yeah.”

 

She had to shake herself the night after the Golden Globes, idly wondering if he was happy that  _ Moonlight  _ had won the top prize as he had hoped. She had never watched the Golden Globes before. 

 

Every time she thought of him (which was infuriatingly often), she felt a small twinge of anger. How dare he sulk so? How dare he just… walk out of her life like this? She found that the anger was easier to tolerate than the gnawing self-loathing, the sting of the thorns of her past still holding her back.

 

+++ 

 

“Olenna,” she said, turning the page of her magazine, trying very hard to sound casual. “What do you know about the Starks?”

 

“Well, everything there is worth knowing, I suppose,” she answered, clapping her hands together in a futile attempt to rid her fingers of the smear of charcoal. “Extraordinarily rich and extraordinary private.” She turned in her stool to face her. “Why do you ask?”

 

Dany struggled for a moment, not wholly prepared for this question. She shifted, bringing her feet under her, curling up into a protective ball on the couch. “I… met Jon Snow.”

 

“Ah,” she said with a nod. “Makes sense that you would. I’ve heard from Tyrion he’s one of the theatre’s best customers.” She groaned as she got to her feet and walked over to the wing-backed chair across from her. A white-furred cat, David Bowie, Dany believed his name was, took this opportunity to hop into Olenna’s lap. “So the dark, handsome bastard of Winterfell caught your eye, but you or the boy did something to fuck it all up.”

 

Dany gave her a sharp look from over the top of her magazine. “Bastard of Winterfell?”

 

Olenna nodded. “I don’t want to assume, or to hang out too much of the poor boy’s laundry, if you will, but Catelyn Stark is not his mother, and she has never let the poor boy forget it his entire life.” She paused, looking at the floor. “Tossed-up strollop.” 

 

Dany felt something acidic burn in her heart at that, thinking of Jon, abused his whole life for something he couldn’t have possibly helped. “How did you know… that he… caught my eye?”

 

“My dear, if I had a dollar for every girl that I’ve hosted here that fell for that boy, I’d be able to buy some decent brandy.” 

 

Something cruel tightened in her belly, but she said nothing, afraid of what may come out of her mouth after such a revelation. 

 

Olenna shrugged and continued. “Before Gendry shacked up here Jon Snow used to be the one to take care of the grocery runs for me. He liked my drawings, you see,” she said, pointing to the one above the mantle-- a stunning, caravaggio-like portrait of a man cast in stark shadow, back bent, face hidden in his knotted hands. “I gave him a sketch for every run. Twice a month for nearly two years, he did that. Never asked for so much as dime for gas. Such a lovely fellow. And I tell you the truth when I say that if I were just twenty years younger--”

 

“Thanks,” Dany said, overly loud, rolling her eyes. 

 

“Allow an old woman some fun, my dear,” Olenna said airily, leaning back in her chair, hand covering her mouth as she was so fond of doing. “I had two girls develop quite a crush on the boy, but he had been, unfortunately for them, already snatched up.”

 

Dany lifted her eyes back to the woman in front of her, where she was sat cross-legged and smiling faintly. “He’s… taken?”

 

“Oh, don’t worry, my dear. Not anymore,” She sighed sadly, looking away with her cheek leaned on her fist. “Poor dear… his girl died a little over a year ago. Accident on the trail, I’m afraid. Poor boy blames himself.” 

 

Dany swallowed, mouth gone dry, tongue heavy and numb. 

 

Olenna looked over at her. “Tell me, did you make a move on that boy?”

 

“No,” she replied quickly. “Why would you think that?”

 

“You’ve been sulking for almost two weeks, girl.” She sniffed, scratching Bowie behind his ears as he purred happily away in her lap. “You made a move on him and he still isn’t ready. He gave you a cold shoulder and with a face like that, you must be unused to rejection. And if he had made the move on  _ you _ , you’d be a bloody fool to refuse.”

 

Dany’s face grew hot and she looked down at her lap. “You’ve  _ got _ to be kidding me,” Olenna scoffed, sitting up further in her chair, upending Bowie onto the floor. “ _ He _ made the first move? Oh, my dear, he must really like you.”

 

“Olenna… I  _ can’t _ ,” she protested, a hint of sadness in her voice. 

 

The woman shrugged. “Nothing wrong with a bit of fun, dear, fugitive or not.” 

 

“I don’t think just  _ fun _ is what he’s after.” Dany heaved a great sigh, running a frustrated hand through her hair. “Or me,” she finally admitted under Olenna’s patient, penetrating stare. 

 

Olenna was quiet for a time, swinging her slippered foot back and forth. “I knew love only once in my life, child,” she finally offered. Dany perked up-- the woman rarely spoke of her past. “And I put it aside for duty, for  _ family _ . And it has proven to be my life’s greatest sorrow.” 

 

Dany remained silent, feeling quite wretched. Olenna stood with a muttered curse and walked over to her, laying cool, leathery fingers on her cheek. “If it’s not Jon Snow today, my dear, it’s another tomorrow. You’ve spent the past two years of your life running. Try sitting and staying awhile… try living, if only for a little bit.” 

 

She smiled at her kindly, before heading towards the kitchen, no doubt to cook up her rosehip tea before she whiled away the small hours of the night reading. Olenna was a notorious insomniac. 

 

Dany sat on the couch, listless and rudderless, rubbing the soot left from Olenna’s fingers from her cheek with her sleeve.

 

+++

 

The days dragged on and Dany continued to muck about in her self-doubt and self-pity. She threw herself into chores around the house, pulling extra shifts at the theatre-- anything to keep her busy, keep her distracted. She even made a grocery run for Olenna, as Gendry's truck was up on lifts in the front yard as he toiled away to fix whatever calamity had fallen upon it. She quickly realized why the woman didn’t use her own car-- it was much too small for a proper haul. She ended up having to get creative, carrying a heavy bag of canned tomatoes in her lap for the whole, long trek back. 

 

_ Just a few more days _ , she kept telling herself,  _ a few more days and he would be nothing more than pleasant, passing stranger, locked away in memory.  _

 

But it was like ignoring a crack in the windshield-- growing fraction by fraction with each day until it spread its spindly arms right through your line of vision. She nearly threw her sketchbook out the window of her booth one afternoon (a Thursday) when she realized that she had sketched out his truck without her realizing it until she had filled in the details of the wheels. 

 

Currently, she sat on the concessions counter in the theatre, swinging her feet and roving the odd, colorful geometry of the circa 1990s carpet with her eyes. It had been dreadfully slow today.

 

“What do you ladies think of ‘Lion Theatres’?” Tyrion said, spreading his hands out as if indicating a grand sign. 

 

Tyrion had gotten the wild hare to actually fix up his slowly crumbling investment. The thing was an antique, built in 1951, and had undergone many unfortunate “renovations” in its long life to “keep up with the times”. It had closed down in 2008, rotting away slowly and Tyrion done very little to it except wash the glass doors and have the musty carpets shampooed when he bought it on a whim last spring.

 

Missy frowned, tilting her head. “I like it,” she said agreeably. “But why ‘lion’?”

 

“No particular reason,” Tyrion hedged, placing the top back on his soda. “Lions are… well they’re _ cool _ aren’t they?”

 

Dany shrugged. “They’re pretty cool, yeah.”

 

“That settles it then,” Tyrion said with a smile, taking a sip from his drink and wincing. Too much rum, apparently. “Anyone know a neon guy?”

 

“A… neon guy?” Missy repeated, pushing the drawer of the cash register closed, having completed her counting. “ _ No one _ has a ‘neon guy’, Tyrion.”

 

Tyrion frowned, tilting his cup. “Worth a try.”

 

“Was it?”

 

“You ladies ready for the old bird’s birthday party?” Tyrion asked cheerily, changing the subject. He gave Dany a pointed look. “I know for a fact that  _ you _ aren’t, my dear.”

 

Dany shook her head with a scoff, pouring more Milk Duds into her hand and pressing her palms together. She liked to warm them up… they got nice and soft that way. “New Year’s nearly murdered me.”

 

“I’m convinced that Olenna is actually just a serial killer. But, a really  _ nice _ one… who kills you slowly with food and drink,” Missy postulated as she poured herself a Sprite from the fountain. 

 

“Sounds quite alright with me,” Tyrion said lightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “What I want to know, is how Olenna managed to ride a horse to the neighbor’s house. It has to be over two miles away.”

 

“I’m less interested in  _ how _ and more interested in  _ why _ ,” Dany said. “She hates the neighbors. What were their names?” 

 

“The Tarlys. Sam’s parents.” Missandei explained. “She hates how poorly his dad treats Sam. Mr. Tarly also is the one who will call the cops without fail.”

 

Dany suppressed a snort, tossing her empty Milk Duds box into the trash can behind the counter. “Something tells me that the sheriff doesn’t mind stopping by, though.”

 

Missy giggled, shaking her head. “No, I think he has quite a crush on Olenna.” 

 

“Well, Dany,” Tyrion said briskly, interrupting their gossip about Olenna and the kindly but stern old sheriff of Winterfell before it got out of hand. “Olenna’s birthday is quite a… production. I’d suggest you find someone to share the spectacle with.”

 

Tyrion’s tone was innocent enough, but his eyes gave him away all too easily. Dany felt herself prickle like a cornered cat. 

 

“She’s… working on it, boss,” Missy intervened quickly before Dany could let him have it for his prying. 

 

Tyrion shrugged. “It really makes no difference to me. It was only advice. And at any rate, our business is better when you two are on good terms.” 

 

With that he went back into the little office beside Auditorium One and shut the door.

 

“What did you tell him?” Danny demanded immediately, turning angry eyes onto her friend. 

 

Missy held her hands up. “I only told him that Jon’s still coming in, just only on Sundays and Mondays. Tyrion’s smart, Dany. He figured it out himself.”

 

She sighed, deflating, exhausted. Over two weeks of emotional turmoil-- swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other… she was continually shocked that she wasn’t dead on her feet. She was silent for a long time, feeling helpless, feeling foolish. 

 

“Am I being stupid, Missy?” she finally asked, voice quiet and small.

 

Missy smiled, stepping closer to her. “You’re only doing what you think is best, Dany. I can’t make those decisions for you.” She shrugged, looking lost. “I mean, even  _ I _ don’t know your whole story, and I’m your best friend.” Missy reached out a hand, pressing it over Dany’s knuckles, curled tightly over the edge of the counter. “But, smart decisions are usually made when you have all the available information.”

 

_ Tyrell House Rule Number Six: Judgement without evidence is just opinion. And opinions are worthless. _

 

Dany laughed as she recalled one of Olenna’s many “house” rules that seemed to be more rules for life, rather than just how to be good tenant. She shook her head and looked up at her friend, smiling affectionately. “You really are insufferable sometimes.”

 

Missy returned her smile, looking triumphant. She leaned closer to her. “I’m sorry if this is too personal, Dany… but, you told me you’ve been on the run for, what? Two years now?” 

 

“Three in September,” Dany muttered, staring steadfastly at her beat up, purple All-Stars.

 

“And did you… well you had to have met  _ someone _ right?” Missy asked gently, ducking her head to find her eyes. 

 

Dany pulled her lips over her teeth and nodded. 

 

“Was it painful? I mean, forgive me if I’m wrong, but you’ve been quite miserable since… ‘The Incident’.” Missy hauled herself up on the counter next to her, nudging her with her shoulder. “Did it hurt like you’re hurting now?”

 

Dany felt herself go cold, her fingers tingling oddly as she stared, unseeing, through the glass doors of the theatre, at the miserable, wet gray that lay beyond. “No,” she replied flatly. She looked over at her friend, eyes downcast. “That’s the exact reason I shouldn’t.” 

 

Missy blew out a long breath through her teeth. She hung her head, her great, poofy bun at the top of her scalp falling forward over her forehead. Dany would have laughed at how ridiculous she looked, if she didn’t feel like withering up and blowing away like a tumbleweed. “Dany… maybe that’s the exact reason you  _ should _ .”

 

+++ 

 

The problem was  _ finding _ him.

 

She could switch shifts with Missy, but that felt too much like an ambush for her liking. 

 

She  _ could _ go to the Stark Ranch. The main road through downtown ran twelve miles south and practically dead-ended in their property. But what would she do once she got there?  _ Hello, Mrs. Stark. Is your reviled stepson here? _

 

No. She’d rather not. 

 

She’d thought about asking one of his half-siblings, but they were an extraordinarily rare sight in town, only frequenting Jory’s Feed and Supply store or the post office. And even then, it was sparingly. 

 

Besides, she didn’t know if she would survive the embarrassment. 

 

“Why don’t you just have me say something to him?” 

 

Dany shook her head. “I need to fix this myself.” 

 

Missy sighed, refilling her Coke and bringing it back over to her. “Are you going to tell him?” She asked, leaning on the glass display case filled with Raisinettes and Sno Caps. “You owe him at least a partial explanation.”

 

“I don’t owe him anything other than an apology.”

 

Missy rolled her eyes as she returned to cleaning the vintage popcorn kettle, Tyrion’s pride and joy. Missy was the only one allowed close to it besides himself. “Whatever you say, Dany.” 

 

+++ 

 

She saw the car again. This time, parked outside Hot Pie’s. 

 

She had scanned the crowd within the little diner, as if she could divine the driver of a ‘97 Camry from the faceless patrons as good as if they held up a sign. Even discerning townsfolk from stranger did little to narrow it down-- Hot Pie’s was just off the highway, a favorite stop for travelers and truckers alike. 

 

She decided to order her burger to-go.

 

+++ 

 

“Sam told me he’s going to hang out with Jon and his brother and sisters at the brewery tonight.” 

 

Dany felt her blood fall to her feet as she looked up at Gilly. It had been 21 days now. 

 

Gilly, to her credit, tried to look and sound as casual as possible, but Dany saw her eyes peek at her from under her lashes as she bent to refill her roller with paint.

 

Dany played it cool. Or at least tried to. “Sam’s taking you on a date?” 

 

“Well, I suppose it  _ is  _ a date,” Gilly replied, returning to the blank wall in front of her with a smile. “In the most technical of ways.”

 

“That’s great, Gilly. I’m really so happy for you.” And she was. Sam had been following Gilly around for as long as Dany had been at the Tyrell house. She couldn’t think of two nicer people— but she had started to think that Sam would never gather the wherewithal to ask her out. 

 

Gilly beamed. “Thanks.” She leaned toward her, her eyes questioning. “But you  _ did _ hear what I said, right?” 

 

Dany halted in her rolling and looked over at her friend, blinking in shock. “You want  _ me _ to crash a date with you and Sam so I can see Jon?”

 

“No,” Gilly answered patiently. “Because you won’t be crashing anything. You’re my friend and Sam’s friend. All of Jon’s siblings save for the two youngest are going to be there.” She looked over at her, suddenly deadly serious. “You’d be coming along to have  _ fun _ .”

 

Dany bit her lip. Even without the draw of Jon Snow, a night out sounded suddenly desperately appealing-- she couldn’t remember the last time she wore a skirt. And seeing him gawk... she shook her head, squashing the thought before it got too unruly. “I don’t think…”

 

Gilly strode towards her, waving her paint roller threateningly under her nose. “Remember that time you accidentally broke that stupid crystal figurine of the cat when you first moved in? And Olenna went berserk? Before you were the golden child of the Tyrell house?”

 

Gilly had taken the blame, stanching the old woman’s rage for her sake. It had bonded the two of them almost instantly. Dany sagged. “Really?” she asked, stunned. “ _ This _ is the favor you’re calling in?”

 

Gilly returned to the wall, looking satisfied and annoyed all at once. “Jon is Sam’s best friend, and Sam says he’s been more miserable than usual. It’s not a favor for me so much as it is for Sam.”

 

Dany felt even worse, if that were possible. 

 

“Fine,” she said flatly, though her heart was suddenly hammering somewhere near her mouth. Gilly grinned, satisfied, and they continued their painting. 

 

+++ 

 

Blackwater Brewing was the place to go, at basically any time of the day or night, if you found yourself bored or restless or in the mood to pick a fight. The owner and brewmaster, Bronn Blackwater, was always happy to oblige. The beer wasn't bad either, according to the locals. 

 

The brewery itself was a converted barn on the edge of Blackwater River. The taproom was an adjacent stable, heated by hanging coil heaters from the rafters. Booths built from barn and pallet wood were built cleverly into the stalls and bales of hay with planks of wood atop them or obliging barrels and empty kegs served as tables. Sparkling string lights and old, reclaimed lanterns filled the place with a cheery glow. 

 

The place was packed. Apparently Bronn was introducing a new brew, and everyone in Winterfell and otherwise seemed to be gathered in his taproom, clutching mugs of dark beer. 

 

“Said they’re in the third stall on the left!” Sam shouted at her and Gilly over the racket. 

 

Dany felt her heart kick up as she followed her friends through the throng. 

 

And there he was, looking as handsome as ever in a dark, flannel button up and dark jeans. His gaiters and black work boots had been left behind, opting for a pair of brown leather low-tops. 

 

“ _ Sam _ !” An unfamiliar, auburn-haired man shouted as he stood up to greet them. “Haven’t seen you since before Christmas! How you been?” 

 

“I’m good, Robb, thanks,” Sam returned with a smile. “You remember Gilly?” 

 

“Yes, yes, hello, Gilly, it’s nice to see you again,” he said, shaking Gilly’s hand. His eyes turned to Dany. “And who is this lovely friend of yours?” 

 

“Robb, this is Dany. She is my and Gilly’s friend. Dany, this is Robb Stark.”

 

Dany held out her hand and Robb took it, looking at her curiously. 

 

“Nice to meet you,” Dany said, swiftly  becoming impossibly uncomfortable. 

 

“Dany, eh?” 

 

Dany nodded, swallowing, chancing eyes over to where Jon was sitting, staring at her with an unreadable expression. Robb looked over his shoulder at his brother, who glanced away, taking a sip of his nearly empty beer. Robb turned back to her, his eyes softening. “Well, we’re happy to have you! Please, sit.” 

 

Dany took a stiff seat next to Jon, who offered her the saddest excuse for a smile she perhaps had ever seen. “Dany, these are my sisters, Arya and Sansa,” Robb said with a sweep of his hand to the two women seated between the two brothers.

 

“Hello,” she said with a wave, wishing very much that the earth would simply swallow her up whole as they waved back to her, motions stilted and awkward. 

 

_ They know about me _ .

 

“Well, I think… I’m going to go get a drink,” she said briskly, standing up as if she had been shocked by a bare wire, having only being seated for all of twelve perpetual seconds. Her ears were burning and she found herself inwardly cursing for not having her own damned car. 

 

“Jon, you look a bit low there, brother,” the dark-haired sister, Arya, called to him with a wicked glint in her eyes.

 

Dany felt her stomach bottom out and she strode from the stall before she could hear his response. 

 

She found a spot in the long queue and stood, looking down at her black velveteen booties. She had spent at least ten minutes looking for them within one of her suitcases earlier this evening. 

 

She heard him clear his throat from behind her and she turned around slowly. She felt a tiny shiver run through her veins when she finally dared to look up at him. She had never been this close to him before, and she wasn’t entirely sure if she could handle it at this juncture. He opened his mouth to say something, but she beat him to it.

 

“Would it help to say that I’m sorry?”

 

He looked at her, brow creased, clearly thrown for a loop. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

 

She was silent at that, unable to think of a single reason she should be sorry… rejections were no reason to apologize-- she just felt she needed to all the same. “For being here,” she finally landed on. The instant she had arrived, had seen how his face had shuttered up like a swinging barn door-- she had quickly regretted intruding into this safe space of his. “I… I know you don’t want to see me.”

 

He  _ laughed _ , the sound a bit shocked, a bit loud. She blinked at him, confused, as he looked to his shoes. “You’re smarter than that, Dany.” 

 

“What is  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

 

“You’re wrong,” he said, quiet, words almost lost over the din of the echo-chamber that was the taproom. “I’ve wanted to see you every day since that night.”

 

She felt her insides simply leave her and she took a tiny step back. She felt as delicate as an egg and he had just tapped the edge of a spoon upon her thin shell to get to the core of her, deft and unknowing all at once.  

 

She waited, unable to speak, but also somehow coming to know him well enough to understand that silences worked wonders on him. He was a deliberate, purposeful person, and he was no different in his words. 

 

“You told me you  _ couldn’t,  _ Dany. You told me not to do this, so I didn’t. I was sure that you didn’t want to see  _ me _ . And now you’re here. With Sam...” He looked at her, eyes devastating and soft all at once. His lips twitched and his eyes lightened, as if a smile was battling in his mouth. “And I remember you once bemoaning Montana’s obsession with beer.”

 

She pulled her lower lip into her mouth, looking around at the crowd, unable to meet the warmth of his eyes, the rawness in his face. She suddenly felt stuffy, her skin itchy beneath the layers of her dress, her sweater, her coat. The jabber of hundreds and the heat of their bodies suffocating. 

 

She cleared her throat, daring to catch his eyes. “Let me buy you a beer.” 

 

+++ 

 

It was fucking freezing and she was starting to realize that curling her hair and spending 20 minutes to pick out her outfit might have just been a waste of time. 

 

_ Fucking winter and its need for hats and coats.  _

 

They stepped onto the little patio beside the bar, occupied by only two others, men who were smoking and laughing on the river bank. The Blackwater was glittering like an opal in the harsh moonlight, quiet and still under a sheet of ice and snow. Jon stepped over to a stand heater, attempting to click it on before realizing that it did not have a propane tank. He cursed, rubbing his gloved hands together. 

 

Jon placed his beer down on a nearby table and pulled out a little silver cigarette case and a lighter. He opened the case and passed it over, where about a half dozen beautifully hand-rolled cigarettes rested under the clasp. 

 

“Only smoke when I drink,” he explained, blushing, maybe a bit embarrassed. Smoking was as common as coffee-drinking out here, especially for men in his particular line of work. City slickers like herself were not so inclined. 

 

“I don’t want a whole one,” she confessed. She had smoked fairly regularly during her brief stint in college, but not so much since then. Even then, her poison of choice consisted of Ultra Lights… she couldn’t imagine smoking a whole one of longcut Virginia Gold.

 

He nodded and pulled one out, tapping one end on the top of the case before passing the smoking end over his lower lip— a very particular gesture, one that was the habit of the ‘oldtimer’ cigarette smoker. She had been friends with some people of the arty persuasion who all had smoked in the similar fashion in college. The ritual of it fascinated her. 

 

He lit it up and passed it over, and she took it with the appropriate grip-- with middle finger and thumb. She puffed experimentally… the burn was nice in the cold, at least. 

 

“Beer’s good,” Jon offered to break the ever-thickening silence.

 

Dany shrugged, taking a sip of her own as she passed the cigarette back over. “I don’t hate it.”

 

He smiled at her, as if he couldn’t help himself, and looked away. She watched him French inhale his cigarette, shaking herself at how her body reacted to it. 

 

“I told you I couldn’t because I can’t, not because I don’t want to,” Dany finally said, cutting to the point of it. It was fucking cold, after all. 

 

He looked to the ground, licking his lips in a wholly distracting fashion. “Then… what are we supposed to do?” he asked, throwing an arm out in a hopeless sort of way. “Why are you here?”

 

She looked down to the ground, taking a more healthy pull of the cigarette than she intended and sputtering a bit. This was the part that she couldn’t quite wrangle herself and his question hung heavy in the air over her head. After two years of running, she had finally found a place for the dust to settle a bit. The fragile contentment in her bones was a real one, but also shallow. And it drove her to do maddening things… like stand outside on a cold January evening, like drinking beer she did not care for, like smoking a cigarette that she did not want. Like being here in the first place.

 

“I missed you.” It was perhaps not the thorough explanation that he wanted, but it was the truest answer she could find amid the rubble. “I wanted to see you again,” she said, voice level and strong as she tried her own, best French inhale.

 

He shifted on his feet, clearing his throat, taking the cigarette from her. His expression was torn between endearment and frustration, but he waited.

 

She sighed, leaning her hips against the table next to her and tucked her hands in her pockets. “There are things about me, Jon. There are things about my life that I cannot deny because I like someone.” She looked up at him, brave despite her heart thudding in her throat. “I cannot tell you these things right now. I may like you, but I don’t trust you yet.” Something like a vague hurt flitted across his face, but he nodded, understanding, tapping the cigarette with his index. “I’ve kept men away from me before, but I can’t seem to keep you away. I don’t want to, and that... scares me.”

 

He stepped closer to her, face down-turned. He lifted a booted foot and snuffed out the cigarette on the sole, throwing the butt into a nearby bucket of sand. He looked at her, his eyes dark with an understanding that terrified her. He had a past too, had all kinds of traps and hazards to pick through on the way to the core of him. She wanted to walk there with him, barefoot and blind as a fawn, but she did not know if she could reach out to take his helping hand just yet. 

 

“So… slow?” he asked, voice like a rockslide, eyes turning up to meet hers, edged with hope.

 

“Slow,” she repeated with a smile, joy bubbling within her breast, glad that he seemed to be right there with her. 

 

He nodded, pulling the brim of his hat further down over his brow. “Better be getting back,” he said. “My sisters are probably already spinning some sort of wild tale about where we slipped off to.” He smiled and offered his arm. 

 

She smiled back, true and grateful, and walked back into the noisy warmth of the taproom with her hand tucked in his elbow. 

 

+++ 

 

“Tell me the truth,” Sansa nearly shouted at her over the din. Her cheeks were rosy with drink. “Did my brother actually go see a  _ musical _ ?”

 

Dany nodded with a grin, on her second beer on a nearly empty stomach and feeling a bit loopy herself. She leaned towards the auburn-haired woman. “He told me he loved it too.”

 

Sansa howled, slapping her knee while Arya sniggered at her other side. Somehow, after Jon and she had returned from the patio, Jon had stayed standing, caught in an animated discussion with Robb about ‘calving’ or some such ranch nonsense she could not understand. In his absence, Jon’s sisters had descended upon her like a pair of curious crows. 

 

“Oh no!” Dany cried through her laughter. “What have I done? Have I doomed him to endless teasing?”

 

“You bet your ass you have,” Arya said gleefully, glancing at her oblivious brother who was now, for some reason, making a gesture as if pulling on a rope and making a strange… mooing sound. Sam and Gilly stood to the side of the pair. Sam clutched his beer, looking somewhat queasy as Gilly leaned in, eyes wide and fascinated. “He’s pretty used to it by now though.”

 

“He’s a trooper,” Sansa sighed. “He takes it all in stride.”

 

“It’s not like he can’t dish it out either,” Arya added with a grin. 

 

“So what do you do on the ranch?” Dany asked, waving a finger between the two women. “Not that I’ll understand a word of it, probably, but I’m still interested.”

 

“I’m the foreman,” Sansa answered. “Or forewoman, rather. That job was  _ supposed _ to be Robb’s, but when I decided to drop out of college two years ago and come back home, he begged me to take it. He  _ hated _ it.” 

 

“Robb is suited only for cowboying,” Arya explained. “Foremans do some of that, but they’re stuck in an office for the most part… counting and buying and selling and all that shit.” 

 

Dany nodded, impressed. “What about you, Arya? What do you do?”

 

“Shoots things, mostly,” Sansa replied dryly, taking a sip of her beer. Arya punched her in the arm and Sansa yelped, rubbing her bicep. “What are you hitting me for? It’s the truth.” 

 

“I’m a cowgirl,” Arya supplied impatiently. “And,  _ occasionally _ , I like to practice my marksmanship like any good cowgirl should.”

 

“She practices an awful lot,” Sansa quipped. “We spend a fortune on ammunition every year.” 

 

“You going to take it out of my pay, foreman?” 

 

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Actually, that’s a fabulous idea.” 

 

“Well, you’re gonna have to take it out of Jon’s pay, too, then.”

 

“Jon likes to shoot?” Dany questioned, feeling her ears warm, oddly. 

 

Arya nodded vigorously. “Oh yeah… Jon taught me everything I know.” She grinned wickedly. “Unfortunately for him, ‘cause now I’m even better than him.”

 

Sansa scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No, you are  _ not, _ Arya. There’s no one better than Jon.”

 

Dany couldn’t help but dart her eyes to where Jon was standing, now listening to Robb tell him something that seemed to be as equally ridiculous as the tale Jon had just concluded. Robb was slapping his knee furiously and Sam, Gilly and Jon were roaring in laughter. She imagined Jon firing a pistol, deft and quick and deadly accurate and felt a very strange and very powerful stirring low in her belly.  _ Really? _ she asked herself,  _ Guns? What the fuck is wrong with you? _

 

“He told me I’m better than him than he was at my age,” Arya protested with a frown as Dany gulped her beer to distract herself.

 

“Aye,” Sansa answered and Dany felt herself start-- she couldn’t recall the last time she heard a person use the word ‘aye’ outside of a pirate impersonation. “But that doesn’t make you better than him.”

 

Arya huffed, crossing her arms and leaning back in the booth seat. “Well, anyway… we have two younger brothers too,” Arya continued, turning her attention back to Dany. “Bran is 18… just went off to college. Rickon is 15 and useless.”

 

“ _ Arya! _ ” Sansa scolded. “He’s not useless, he’s an  _ apprentice _ .” 

 

“Same difference,” Arya said with a shrug.

 

“So a foreman, two cowboys, a cowgirl and an apprentice,” Dany ticked off on her fingers, suppressing a hiccup. “You  _ can’t _ possibly run that whole place all by yourselves.”

 

Sansa shook her head. “We have Yara and Theon Grey… they’re permanent residents. Stay on the ranch year-round. We hire seasonals for the calving and the round up.” 

 

Dany was just about to ask what exactly ‘calving’ was when Jon, Robb, Sam and Gilly came back to the table. 

 

“Hope my sisters haven’t--” he burped. “‘Scuse me…” he thumped his chest with a fist and Sansa rolled her eyes. “Hope my sisters haven’t tormented you too much, Dany,” Robb continued as he settled down on the edge of the booth. 

 

Dany shook her head. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

 

Robb’s cheeks were red, his eyes bright, voice mussed. He pointed to Jon who stood beside her, no room left for him on the booth. “Good,” he said squinting his eyes at his brother, as if he wasn’t quite sure who he was. “Need you around to make this broody fucker a bit less... broody.” 

 

She felt Jon freeze next to her, clearly mortified. It was probably the alcohol, she would decide later, but she reached up and caught his hand that was hanging by her bicep in her own. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Robb waggled a finger at her, overly excited. “Ah! Yes! Good!” He turned his eyes to Jon. “I think I like her, brother.”

 

Jon managed a laugh, and she felt his muscles loosen, his fingers curl around her own briefly, before he tucked them into his coat pocket. 

 

The heat of his skin did not leave hers for some time.

 

+++ 

 

“Olenna’s birthday is tomorrow,” she told him as they all filtered out into the parking lot, breath clouding in the orange lights, snow falling around them slowly. They had all descended upon Hot Pie’s for a greasy burger— everyone save for Jon and Gilly having gotten themselves good and drunk. 

 

He looked at her, confused. 

 

“She throws quite a party… especially if it’s one for herself,” she explained further. “I know she’d love to see you.”

 

A slow, satisfied grin wound itself over his lips as he came to realize what, exactly, she was doing. He ducked his head, looking to his feet. “What time does it start?”

 

Dany laughed, something like glee bubbling up in her stupid, drunk heart. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it starts the moment she wakes up, but there’s going to be dinner and a fire. That all starts around 6. Dress nice. Olenna likes to keep it fancy for her birthday.”

 

Jon laughed and he tucked his hands into his pockets, offering her a tiny smile. “I think I can swing it.”

 

+++ 

 

_ Blind love couldn't win _ __  
_ As the facts all came in _ __  
_ But I know I'll again chase after wind _ _  
_ __ What have I got if not a thought?

 

_ “Fool’s Errand” --  _  Fleet Foxes

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is, super early for y'all! 
> 
> I couldn't really resist. I have no self-control. The response to the first chapter simply floored me, so here it is, a week in advance, because I can be flattered into doing almost anything. 
> 
> Thanks again to the wonderful [ashleyfanfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyfanfic/pseuds/ashleyfanfic) for the lovely aesthetic-- and thank you to the rest of the tarts (Sparkles59, meisiesmut, jaqtkd, and NoOrdinaryLines) for being sweet angels. 
> 
> And, last but DEFINITELY not least, thank you so much to my kind-hearted, ever-diligent beta, [hardlyfatal](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ashleyfanfic/pseuds/hardlyfatal), of whom I am so indebted to at this point I'm kind of terrified. 
> 
> As always, let me know what you think, my precious readers!
> 
> PS: **[This story is obviously not on this poll, but PLEASE go vote for your favorites! Go show those awesome authors some love!!](https://goo.gl/forms/SvWysDkGlldA4Gcx1)**


	3. WINTER, III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’d always been somewhat of a worrier.
> 
> All day, she had to beat back foolish, intrusive thoughts-- that he wouldn’t come, that her dress wouldn’t fit, that her hair would catch fire… somehow, some way.
> 
> She had not considered that dinner would be a complete, unmitigated disaster.

Dany staggered into the kitchen the next morning, groaning profusely and cursing the sun’s very existence, only to find Olenna pouring mimosas at the kitchen table. 

 

“Here girl,” the old woman said, thrusting a flute at her without so much as a ‘good morning’. “Fight fire with fire, I always say.”

 

Dany took the flute hesitantly, still in a bit of a daze. “Happy Birthday, Olenna,” she finally offered weakly, raising her glass and taking a sip. 

 

Olenna shook her head sternly, deeply disappointed. “That’s no way to cheer to someone’s birthday, my dear, like you’re in a damn funeral parlor,” she admonished, lifting her own glass. “No, we clink glasses and you drink until we need a refill.”

 

Dany laughed, a bit stunned if she was being honest. They repeated the gesture and, this time, Dany drained her cup. Olenna handed over a fresh mimosa with a smile. “Now get something in that belly of yours. There’s lots of work and lots of drinking to do today.”

 

+++

 

_ Tyrell House Rule 4: parties are for fun, not to air out dirty laundry.  _

 

When Dany had first moved in, she had heard rumors of the ragers that Olenna would throw for seemingly every occasion. And those rumors had proved to be entirely true. 

 

And as the day wore on, Dany was starting think that perhaps she had been misguided in inviting Jon. 

 

“Oh I’m going to give him such hell for not coming to see me, the sod.”

 

Dany rolled her eyes, knowing the old woman was mostly harmless, but she had also been drinking like a fish all day. 

 

With the streamers and lanterns hung, the dry and dead brambles of rosebush and sage brush piled into the fire pit, and the bar set up with every liquor one could imagine (and some that one couldn’t), the residents of Tyrell house retreated to their rooms to get ready for the evening.

 

Dany shifted the same bobby pin in her hair for probably the fifth time, squinting in the ancient, spotted mirror at her reflection. She had spent more time on her make up than she normally bothered with most days. She’d even applied eyeliner, though she had to borrow it from Missy, as she found hers had all but dried out. 

 

Olenna had left no room for interpretation on the dress code. Most times she was uncaring of such “frivolities”, but her birthdays were always a more “classy affair”, with a catered, sit-down meal and fine cocktails prepared by a proper bartender (Bronn would be doing the honors tonight) around a towering fire. Whether the night  _ stayed _ classy was another matter altogether. 

 

She took a few paces back from the pedestal sink, studying her profile in the cheap, big-box store-provided mirror that Missy had hung on the back of the bathroom door. 

 

Dany hadn’t worn this dress in ages. There were very few trappings of her lavish past that she relished, but fashion had always been a weakness of hers. The prospect of actually dusting off one of the few works of art she had managed to snatch from her wardrobe in her flight had made her perhaps a bit giddy, a bit reckless… especially with the compounded enticement of making a beautiful man drool. 

 

She tried very hard not think of that however, as she picked up her skirt and twirled, smiling a bit to herself at the way the slinky fabric kissed her skin. 

 

The dress had been a gift from her mother-- one of the last before her death. Her mother had leaned towards her as she handed her the handsome, ribboned box, whispering “take good care of this, my love. Might catch you a husband one of these days.”

 

She had been joking, but not. 

 

The dress was a Elie Saab, priceless and perfect. It was a rich roan, the silk skimming her clavicles and stretching to the floor. It flowed to and fro, folding over her breasts and waist, hanging from her hips in a perfect drape she couldn’t quite understand. Combined with the long sleeves, such a dress could almost be considered modest, if not for her exposed collarbones and the high opening of the skirt, coming almost to the top of her thigh. 

 

She suddenly regretted selling off almost all of her fine jewelry-- the only piece she kept was resting on her right index. The addition of an understated necklace or a simple bangle would do wonders.

 

She almost fell over at the sound of Olenna screeching from the bottom of the stairs. “Your date is here, girl! Don't keep him waiting like a dolt in one of those horrible movies!”

 

She cursed, flinging the door open and rushing back into her room where she found her shoes— black, velvet, high-top booties with a wicked heel. She hoped she could still walk in such shoes… it had been quite a while after all. 

 

Much to her girlish dismay, Olenna was keeping Jon quite occupied by berating him soundly for “not even being able to come ‘round for a spot of brandy, for fuck’s sake”. So Dany had to make the journey down the wide, curving stairs unobserved, looking on as Jon blushed and his brother, Robb, roared in laughter at Jon’s misfortune. 

 

“Sorry,” Dany interrupted with a sheepish grin as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Olenna fell silent immediately, looking at her appraisingly with a knowing, raised brow that made Dany warm around the ears. “Glad you made it, Jon,” she said leaning in to kiss his cheek. 

 

He did not return her gesture, did not do much of anything. He stood, staring at her, thoroughly poleaxed. 

 

“Nice to see you again, Dany,” Robb offered in light of his brother’s sudden spell of muteness. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek, gracious as ever. “You look beautiful.”

 

“Thanks,” Dany said with a grin, looking to Jon, who seemed to be slowly waking from his spell. “Um, would you like a drink? Olenna got Bronn to bartend.”

 

Olenna patted Jon’s arm. “Go get a nice drink with the nice lady, Jon. We eat in little over an hour. Lovely to see you, Robb.”

 

Jon coughed, stepping to the side and offering his arm and she took it, relieved that he seemed to have snapped out of it. Robb laughed quietly from behind them as they made their way into the kitchen. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Jon suddenly muttered into her ear. “You just— you caught me off guard.”

 

As far as compliments went, it was a lousy one. The words “you” or “look” or “nice” appeared nowhere in it, but she felt herself grow hot, a smile forming over her lips, nevertheless. 

 

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” she managed and he blushed, murmuring a quiet “thanks”. And, really, she meant it. She had fully expected him to show up in boots and a thermal— she had no illusions about his lifestyle and the little room it left for things like fashion sense, but she could admit when she was wrong. 

 

He wore a dark gray, pinstriped suit and vest (all very nicely tailored) over a white shirt with a black tie. His hair wasn’t tied back, instead styled and slicked back with a matte pomade. He’d obviously gone to great lengths to look nice… and, well, he was doing a damn good job of it.

 

“Hope you don’t mind that I tagged along, Dany,” Robb said from behind them. “Always wanted to go to one of Olenna’s parties.”

 

“Not at all, everyone is welcome at Olenna’s,” she answered honestly. “Where are your sisters?”

 

“Went to Missoula for the weekend. Only a few weeks till calving.”

 

Dany blinked, confused. 

 

“Calving is the busiest season for us,” Robb explained. “The girls usually try to get out of town for a bit before we’re trapped on the ranch for a month.”

 

“Ah,” Dany answered, not fully understanding but unwilling to get into the intricacies of running a ranch at this moment. 

 

Bronn was situated on the little closed-in porch off the kitchen, “freezing his nuts off”, and dressed in proper bartender’s garb, complete with a handsome vest and garters at the sleeves. 

 

“Snow,” Bronn greeted as they approached the bar. “Surprised to see you here, you damn recluse.”

 

“Nice to see you too, Bronn,” Jon replied flatly. 

 

“What’ll be for uh…?” he asked, pointing to Dany. 

 

“Dany,” she answered. “Woodford, splash of water, please.”

 

Bronn raised his eyebrows, impressed. Jon looked at her, intrigued. “Bourbon?”

 

She shrugged, suddenly feeling cornered. She’d spent countless summers in Kentucky, the heart of bluegrass country. Her parents’ stable had been about two miles from the distillery-- bourbon was basically in her blood. 

 

“And for you, Snow?” 

 

“Same,” Jon replied with a flash of a grin. 

 

Bronn poured their drinks and Jon shoved two singles into his already full tip jar. They waited as Robb fought with Bronn on how to make a proper Manhattan (“I will not put a fucking cherry in that thing, Stark!”), when they heard a quite a clamor rise from the direction of the front door. 

 

She, Jon and Robb all gave each other questioning looks before heading back through the kitchen and into the foyer to see exactly what all the noise was about. 

 

“Oh, Marg, my dear Marg! You came!” Olenna was near sobbing as she hugged a tall, beautiful, brown-haired woman quite enthusiastically. 

 

“Grandmother,  _ please _ ,” the woman begged, wresting herself from Olenna’s arms. “Of  _ course _ I came! I wouldn’t miss your birthday!”

 

Olenna sniffed, patting the taller woman on the cheek adoringly. Dany assumed that the visitor was Olenna’s well-missed and often talked-about granddaughter, Margaery. The woman in question straightened, a wide, bright smile forming over her lips when she caught sight of them standing in the hall. 

 

“Robb Stark!” Margaery exclaimed happily as she stepped forward, bending to kiss him on the cheek. Robb stood, flummoxed and silent. “And Jon! It’s nice to see you too!” she greeted, bending to kiss him too. 

 

“Pleasant surprise Margaery,” Jon said with smile. “How long has it been? Three years?”

 

Margaery nodded. “Something like that.” Her eyes turned to Dany. “And who is this vision, Jon?” 

 

“I’m Dany, one of Olenna’s tenants,” Dany greeted with a smile. “Moved in about four months ago.”

 

“Oh yes, Grandmother sings your praises quite often. Very nice to finally meet you, Dany,” Margaery returned. She turned her face back to Robb-- it seemed that it was his turn to be a shocked, stammering mess for he had barely moved since Margaery had approached. 

 

“Would one of you strapping young blokes come help an old woman with these suitcases, eh?” Olenna called from the door. 

 

Roob snapped out of it, lunging forward and taking the luggage from Olenna. Olenna shook her head at her granddaughter. “You don’t pack light, that’s for certain, Marg.”

 

Margaery shrugged. “I get it honest.”

 

“What was all that racket?” Missy asked as she walked up behind Dany, Jon and Robb with Gilly and Sam in her wake. 

 

“Margaery’s home!” Olenna cried. “Oh, this is going to be a proper party now!”

 

+++ 

 

Olenna had not been wrong.

 

With Robb properly distracted by Margaery and Sam, and Gilly and Missy on the dance floor, Jon and Dany found themselves questing for a quieter space, not yet inebriated enough for all that mess and perhaps longing for a moment alone. 

 

The Talking Heads cover band that Olenna had bussed in from Missoula was gathering a full head of steam in the solarium and the bouncy synths and jangly guitars echoed through the old house as they sat in the parlor… well,  _ she _ sat, her shoes already killing her poor feet. Jon, on the other hand, meandered through the room, hand in a pocket, the other clutching his drink, looking at the many sketches that Olenna had taped onto the walls. “She’s gotten better,” he said proudly. “If that was possible.” 

 

Dany felt something queer clench in her chest at his wonder, his clear admiration, of art and everything it meant. It was not everyday you found someone-- man or woman-- who could truly respect such a labor. “She draws almost every day, all day,” Dany pointed out. “Not sure how she does it.”

 

“So do you,” Jon said, turning on his heel to look at her. 

 

Dany scoffed, blushing. “I  _ doodle _ … dragons and sharks and nonsense. I don’t  _ draw _ .”

 

Jon came to sit next to her, perching at the end of the small chaise, giving her and her bare feet a wide berth. “Don’t see much of a difference personally.”

 

“You haven’t seen my stuff,” Dany said dryly, taking a sip of her wine.

 

“True,” he said, “but I’d like to, someday.”

 

She smiled at him, a bit sad, a bit hopeful, something strange and unfamiliar blooming in her throat. “I’d feel rather inadequate,” she said in what she hoped was a jesting tone, “seeing as though you seem to be somewhat of an aficionado.”

 

He shook his head, looking to the floor. “How’d you find this place?” he asked, ignoring her teasing, waving his drink to the room at large. “Can’t see Olenna listing herself on Air B and B.”

 

She snorted, shaking her head. “No, just a good old fashioned church bulletin.” 

 

“Didn’t think people our age knew anything about church bulletins.”

 

“Small towns teach you things,” she replied mysteriously. She shifted straighter, pulling her knees up and crossing her arms over the tops of her shins, making sure her skirt draped over her appropriately. She pointed a finger at him as she took another gulp of her wine, having finished her bourbon a bit too quickly. She took comfort in the fact that Jon was already on his second helping. Olenna would probably freak, seeing her drink red wine on her nice, white chaise lounge. “On a similar note, I wouldn’t think a cowboy would be into indie films and musicals.”

 

He laughed, placing a palm on his thigh as he leaned forward, hanging the hand with his drink between his thighs, swirling it idly. “Movies have always fascinated me.” 

 

She peered at him as something in his expression fell, eyes slanting in a vague, distant sadness. “Can I ask why?”

 

He looked down, tapping his foot in a mindless, nervous motion. “Had a lot of time on my hands as a kid,” he finally said heavily, looking back up at her with a pained smile. “Movies were an escape for me… and it… kind of stuck.”

 

She felt something deep and dark jolt within her at that. A lonely kid, surrounded by a large family but still somehow isolated, yearning for some sort of shelter… it was as familiar a tale to her as Hogwarts or Middle Earth-- her own, favorite refuges. 

 

She swung her legs over the side of the lounge, shifting closer to him. She knocked her shoulder into his. “I was a huge bookworm when I was a kid,” she began, looking down at her nails. Missy had painted them for her two days ago—  a purple so dark it was nearly black. They were already chipping. “Don’t read so much anymore, but, in a lot of ways, my books were more of a home to me than, well, my  _ actual _ home.” She looked back at him, offering a smile. “So,” she said, tilting up a shoulder.  _ I get it. _

 

His eyes were vaguely wondering, disbelieving, as if he had stumbled upon some rare, exquisite bird that he had never seen before. “You’re a fucking mystery, Dany,” he finally said with a shake of his head. “You, in this dress that looks like it cost more than my car—“

 

“That’s not saying much.”

 

He barked a laugh, sudden and loud and she felt herself warm. He nudged her with his elbow and she smiled, looking to the scratched and pitted wood floor beneath her bare toes. He ducked his head, catching her eyes again, face serious. “I’d like for you to not be a mystery, some day.”

 

She bit her lip, feeling the inexplicable burn of tears in her eyes, the timbre of promise in his voice making her weak and helpless. She took a heavy, steadying breath. “Well, shall we go? Olenna will be serving dinner soon,” she asked hastily as she blinked away whatever it was he was doing to her. She shifted forward, bending to collect her shoes, only to halt midway as he held them out to her, dangling from two fingers. 

 

She took them from him, resisting the urge to snatch them up from his grasp, now almost furious at how perfect he was turning out to be. “Thanks.”

 

He watched her with a vague fascination as she buckled herself up. “Don’t know how you wear those things,” he observed with some concern. 

 

“Me either,” she replied as she straightened. She blew a stray hair from her face and tucked her hand into his offered elbow again as they stood

 

“Shall we?”

 

+++ 

 

She’d always been somewhat of a worrier. 

 

All day, she had to beat back foolish, intrusive thoughts-- that he wouldn’t come, that her dress wouldn’t fit, that her hair would catch fire… somehow, some way. 

 

She had not considered that dinner would be a complete, unmitigated disaster. 

 

Olenna had Gendry put the two leaves into the table so the grand old antique seemed like something out of a Jane Austen novel. It was loaded down with old china, silver bowls steaming and inviting, fancy platters and pewter ewers brimming with food and drink alike. A massive rib roast sat in the middle, a mouthwatering jewel crowning the veritable feast. 

 

“I’ll tell my cook to cook the steak up for you if you insist, but you should know that I shall never speak to you again!” Olenna exclaimed as all of the revelers crowded around the table. 

 

Olenna hadn’t bothered with seat assignments, so the seating was a mild calamity. Dany took a chair between Robb and Jon. Robb, much to his delight, managed to secure a seat next to Margaery, who sat next to her grandmother at the head of the table. Next to Jon came Sam and Gilly, with Tyrion taking his usual seat at the other end of the table. Across from them were Missy, Gendry, and Bronn along with Olenna’s trio of wild biddies that she had bridge club with— Maege Mormont, Ellaria Sand, and Lysa Arryn. They met once a month and were always raucous without fail. 

 

Olenna stood, holding up her wine glass. “Here’s to us, for good people are scarce!” she cried, and all assembled raised their glasses in toast and tucked into the opulent meal with much clatter and noise. 

 

“Living here must never get boring,” Jon observed as he passed her the rolls. 

 

She shook her head, grinning. “Never a dull moment.”

 

Sam leaned over his plate to get a better look at her. “I’d be even fatter than I already am if I lived here!”

 

“It’s not an everyday occurrence, but it is quite a perk, I’ll give you that.” She  _ had _ put on a few pounds since she’d been here, but she couldn’t deny that they were perhaps needed. Much of the past two years had been filled with her scouring food pantries and soup kitchens, staring into the bleak, white light of her empty fridge in some shitty apartment in some shitty town. It was quite a nice change of pace, living here. 

 

Much of the din quieted as people dug in, and, as far as Dany could tell, all was right with the world as she chewed happily on her tender steak and delicious green beans.

 

“Snow,” Bronn called abruptly from across them through a mouthful of steak. “When did this,” he said, waving between the two of them with a knife, “start, eh?”

 

Jon froze, fork halfway to his mouth. Something dangerous flaring in his eyes. “That’s not really any of your business Bronn.”

 

Bronn shrugged, chewing loudly. “Just good to see ya with a girl again. Thought you’d never get over—“

 

“ _ Bronn _ ,” Robb warned, eyes flashing. 

 

Dany looked over to Jon, alarmed. His face had grown dark, his mouth a thin line. He placed his fork down. “Excuse me,” he muttered to her before standing with a loud scrape of his chair and leaving without a word. 

 

“God damnit, Bronn,” Robb snarled while Olenna looked at Bronn like a hawk who had just spotted a field mouse. 

 

“Rule number four, boy,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “Parties are for  _ fun _ not for tormenting nice men with troubled pasts.”

 

Bronn spread his hands, lost. “I was just bein’ friendly,” he complained. “Even a hardass like me can admit I was worried about the lad for a bit there—“

 

“That’s your idea of being friendly, you prickly old bastard?” Olenna snapped. “You will apologize to that boy and make things right, or I’ll do without a mean-hearted bartender  _ and  _ keep all your tips for myself, just to teach you a lesson.”

 

Bronn looked less than pleased with this bargain, but sighed in defeat before throwing his napkin onto his plate and getting up to presumably find Jon. 

 

Olenna whistled loudly at him and pointed to Dany, much to her horror. “Apologize to the girl as well, for upsetting her date, you oaf.”

 

Bronn looked thoroughly put out, shoulders falling. He looked over to her, bowing shallowly with a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry about that, Dany. I hope I didn’t ruin your night with Snow. He’s a good lad.”

 

Dany managed to smile, feeling trapped and addled by what had just transpired in a very short amount of time. “It’s alright, Bronn, thank you.”

 

Bronn stomped from the room and Dany pushed her food to and fro over her plate, guilty that she suddenly felt that she could not eat another bite of such a carefully prepared and expensive meal.

 

Sam patted her arm, turning back to his food, as the rest of the diners continued their meal in a tense silence. 

 

She tried to fight back the heavy, acidic knot that had formed in her throat. She felt like she was pinned to a board, trapped between wanting to melt into the floor and rushing to find him and fold him into her like a scrap of newsprint.

 

“Oh, toss it,” Olenna finally grumbled, throwing her fork down. “Who's ready for a dance?”

 

+++ 

 

“Thought you’d left,” she said as levelly as she could manage, taking a bracing sip of wine.

 

He shook his head. “I’m Robb’s ride,” he said, stepping closer to her. “And I’m not going to let some clueless prick ruin his night or mine with you.”

 

She smiled. “I’m glad.”

 

He flashed her a smile back. “I just had to get out of that room.” He looked away, watching the party-goers shimmy and shake to ‘Psycho Killer.’ “Anyone who comes to a small town for privacy is seriously kidding themselves.”

 

She pulled her lips over her teeth, feeling oddly attacked. She looked to the dance floor, laughing at Sam and Gilly doing the ‘scuba diver’ to each other. 

 

“Who was Bronn talking about?” she asked after some consideration, having tamped her heart back into her chest at the thought of asking him such a personal question. 

 

His shoulders twitched. “Her name was Ygritte,” he said heavily, a sad smile lining his face. “She died September before last.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she managed, and found herself stepping closer, pressing a hand into his. 

 

“It’s alright,” he said so quietly she almost missed it. “I’m just sorry… I’m sorry you had to hear about it like that.”

 

She tugged at his hand, attempting to give him the best smile she could muster. “It’s okay,” she said, “shit like that… it’s hard to just come around to naturally, you know?” 

 

Jon laughed weakly, nodding and she saw his shoulders fall, just a bit.

 

They were silent for a time, watching the crowd. Tyrion was… well… boogying with Olenna. Jon laughed and pointed to his brother, who was trying to be as suave as he could, dancing with the lithe and graceful Margaery. “Look at him, the fool.”

 

“I take it that dancing does not run in your family?” 

 

Jon shook his head with another laugh and Dany was so relieved that he seemed to be back to normal she nearly sagged. She tried not to think about how much she had missed him, though he was never truly absent. “No,” he said with some finality. “No, my family are as awkward on the dancefloor as they come.”

 

She was a little drunk, a little careless, she told herself, as she tugged on the hand she was holding, pulling him toward the dancefloor. “I think I’d like to find out for myself, Jon Snow.”

 

He looked at her with a maddening mix of terror and hopeless endearment. “Spare me,” he cried, weakly protesting, “If you see me dance you may never want to speak to me again.”

 

She started to sway her hips, snap her fingers, as ‘Making Flippy Floppy’ started up-- one of her favorites. Jon stared at her, brow quirked, bewildered. 

 

“I think you’ve mistaken me for a good dancer,” she pointed out as she went into some clumsy rendition of the ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’ dance. “If I judge you, I’m just a hypocrite,” she told him as she attempted an imitation of Madonna’s ‘In Vogue’.

 

He grinned, entranced, moving in and starting to step, move his hips, wave his arms.

 

He was absolutely terrible. 

 

She laughed, the sound bubbling from deep within her belly, her heart feeling lighter than it had in an age. 

 

Then the mood shifted, the band striking up ‘Naive Melody’. It wasn’t the slowest of slow songs, but Jon stepped closer all the same, scooping her up, a bit drunk and brave himself. A broad palm pressed to the small of her back, another catching up the hand that hadn’t landed on his shoulder. 

 

They managed a lively sway, and she had to keep herself from swooning when Jon abruptly started to sing along with a dumb grin on his face. Two could play at this game. She fucking loved this song, after all. 

 

Before she knew it, they were nearly shouting the lyrics at each other, dumb grins plastered on their faces, giggling hopelessly. He even extended his arm a few times, letting her twirl, dipping her dramatically. 

 

When the song ended, she let her cheek fall to his shoulder, contentment settling its comforting weight into her bones. 

 

+++ 

 

She couldn’t remember when she had been so happy. 

 

They sat around the fire with the others, breath puffing before them, ephemeral and magical within the orange light of the flames. 

 

“I’ll have you know that fire is fed with all the fucking rose bushes we pulled up a few weeks ago!” Olenna informed the crowd.

 

“And the Christmas tree!” Tyrion called, lifting his glass. 

 

Jon twined a careful arm around her waist. “This okay?” he asked, voice thick with drink, with happiness.

 

“Yes,” she answered, warm to the tips of her hair.

 

They stayed like that, watching the fire burn and the others try their hand at covering ‘Life During Wartime’. Jon passed her a cigarette. Missy and Sam laughed at Gilly, dancing and shimmying with Tyrion. Olenna entered into a dangerous drinking game with her Bridge biddies.

 

Dany leaned her head on Jon’s shoulder and closed her eyes, very unwilling to let this night end.

 

+++

 

She groaned as she peeled herself from her bed, feeling as though her limbs were not really her own. She smacked her lips, coming to the conclusion that  _ something _ had crawled into her mouth and died the evening before. 

 

She staggered to the bathroom across the hall and brushed her teeth hastily, eager to banish the foul taste from her tongue. 

 

After splashing her cheeks with some icy water, she stomped moodily down the stairs, unhappy at pretty much the world. 

 

She stopped and blinked when she entered the kitchen. Robb, Jon, Margaery, and even Olenna were bustling about, seemingly cooking an enormous breakfast. Olenna walked over to her with a glass that looked like a Bloody Mary. “My dear,” Olenna said with a kiss to her cheek. “Drink, it will make you feel better.” 

 

Dany rubbed worried fingers at her temple as she took the drink, confused. Jon walked up to her, an enormous pack of bacon in his hands, fresh from the fridge. “That chaise is not as comfortable as it looks,” he mumbled before placing a chaste kiss on the top of her head. 

 

She stood, a little dumbfounded, blinking against the sun that filtered through the windows. She shook her head, drifting to the kitchen table, settling in and sipping her Bloody Mary.

 

+++

 

She felt somehow fuller than she had the night before. 

 

Olenna had cooked up the last of the prime rib, along with too many eggs, a stack of French toast almost as tall as she was and a plate loaded down with bacon. 

 

Dany felt like she was waddling as she walked to the front door to see Jon and Robb off. She tried to ignore the bitter twist in her belly, resentful that he should have to leave. 

 

He gathered up her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, a small smile playing on his lips, before he turned to leave.

 

She lifted her hand to her face, finding a folded up sticky note within it. She opened it and smiled. 

 

+++

 

_ The less we say about it the better _

_ Make it up as we go along _

_ Feet on the ground, head in the sky _

_ It's okay, I know nothing's wrong, nothing… _

  
_ “This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)”  _ Talking Heads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to those lovely, lovely tarts: NoOrdinaryLines, Sparkles59, jaqtkd, ashleyfanfic, meisie, and Justwanderingneverlost for all the laughs, tears, and continual support and therapy you wonderful women provide.
> 
> And, of course, to the ever wonderful and super observant [hardlyfatal.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal) Thank you so much for sticking with me dear. <3
> 
> **[(And only a few more days to vote!!! Show those fic authors some love!)](https://goo.gl/forms/e461NfgzYVr6rKAD3) **


	4. SPRING, I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve been hearing an awful lot of giggling coming from your room lately.”
> 
> Dany peered at her friend, demure. It was a slow, quiet afternoon in Hot Pie’s. They’d come in for a quick bite before both their shifts at the theatre. “Are you eavesdropping, you sick freak?”

 

Spring was a strange season in Winterfell, Montana, she came to find.

 

Mostly, because it was quite like winter. Only sunnier.

 

The days were still bitingly cold, but the rain and snow seemed to clear the way for the blooming of the pale bitterroots and the purple columbines. The sun shone stark and searing against the last of the snowcaps, glittering like jewels as they relinquished their life-giving water to the thirsty ground beneath.

 

The small flock of goats at Tyrell House pranced and jumped through the slush, joyful and elated at the new-found fodder springing up from the frosty loam. The chickens pecked and scurried, squawking happily at the freshly-derobed cones of alder and spruce revealed by the melt.

 

Dany, though her cheeks still stung with wind and frost, watched all with a careful bliss, the slow thaw of her new home acting much like a balm-- a soothing, slow-working potion against her wrecked nerves, her dogged paranoia.

 

“Have you called that boy yet, my girl?” Olenna shouted over to her from where she was stapling fresh chicken wire to a post. “I know what was on that little note he gave you. Asked me for the sticky note.”  

 

Dany was supposed to be keeping the hens in check, wrangling them away from the gap in the fence, but she was doing quite a dismal job, still distracted with sweet, silly thoughts of two nights before. Missy and Gilly were currently yelping and shouting as they chased one particularly intrepid bird across the yard.

 

“No,” Dany replied, shoving back another hen with her heel. She had tried to be gentle at first, but she quickly learned that the animals were tough as nails-- and just about as dumb.

 

“Good job, dear,” Olenna said as she appraised Dany’s chicken shepherding work with a nod. “You’re learning.” The old woman squeezed the lever of her staple gun and waved it at her. “But please tell me you aren’t playing some foul thing as hard to get.”

 

Dany looked down at her muddy boots. “No… I mean, I don’t _think_ so.”

 

“Two days is an awful lot like playing hard to get,” Olenna replied with a sniff.

 

“Oo... “ Gilly breathed as she approached, a ruffled and rather offended-looking hen gathered in her arms. “Are we dishing?”

 

“No,” Dany replied firmly, kicking her foot out again as two birds strutted up, curious to see their captive sister.

 

Olenna rolled her eyes, firing away another staple into the post. “She’s being a silly child.”

 

“Am not,” Dany protested. “I’m being _cautious_.”

 

“Whatever you say, girl,” Olenna replied within a sigh, finishing off the last of the fence.

 

Gilly leaned over the fence to deposit her prize into the now fully enclosed yard. “Jon couldn’t take his eyes off you the whole night, you know.” Dany felt herself flush, her breath kicking up. “Should have seen him when you fell asleep on his shoulder when we were around the fire. All red and grinning.”

 

Dany bit back a smile, a little embarrassed. “I don’t really remember doing that.”

 

“Oh you were conked out,” Gilly said with laugh. “We were all pretty toasted, but I think you were the most.”

 

“Girl can’t handle her drink yet,” Olenna muttered, putting her stapler into her apron pocket. “That’ll change.”

 

“I hope so,” Dany replied. “I can't really remember anything after that.”

 

Olenna raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Would you like me to fill you in, or should I let your man do that for you?”

 

Dany looked from woman to woman, her stomach falling to her feet, now truly horrified. “What the fuck did I do?”

 

Olenna shrugged, opening her mouth to answer when Margaery came out of the back door, a plate of sandwiches and a carafe of coffee in her hands.

 

“Lunch time!” she called, placing her wares upon the table on the screened porch. Missy, sat in the grass and nursing a scrape on her elbow, stood to go help her with the gathering of plates and mugs.

 

Olenna turned back to them with a wistful shake of her head. “I love that girl.”

 

“Olenna, what happened?” Dany pressed.

 

Olenna waved a dismissive hand at her. “Just tried to kiss the boy is all, as he was helping you back in the house.”

 

She felt all the blood leave her face. “I did _what_?”

 

“You think you’re the only girl to try to kiss a pretty man while you were blackout, my dear?”

 

“I hardly think that makes it better.”

 

Olenna shrugged. “He seemed amused. Boy is too chivalrous for his own good. Managed to wrangle you up the stairs and in bed without so much as stealing a peck.”

 

“He did _what?_ ”

 

“Oh, stop,” Olenna said crossly as she grabbed the top of the roll of chicken wire leaning against the fence beside her. “Wouldn’t let him take you up there by himself. I always watch out for my girls.”

 

“If it makes you feel any better,” Gilly offered, picking up the other end of the roll of wire, “Margaery had to do much the same for Robb.”

 

Olenna threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, the poor fool, thinking he could out-drink my granddaughter.”

 

“Margaery had to help him in, too,” Gilly said with a chuckle. “Got him settled on the couch in the living room.”

 

“Robb’s always been taken with her,” Olenna said with a shake of her head. “Can’t say I blame him.” She looked at Dany then, her eyes sharp and knowing. “Don’t feel too bad, my girl. Jon Snow is just as taken with you, I think, and after the rigamarole he went through, I think that nice man deserves a phone call.”

 

Gilly offered her a small, reassuring smile, before turning to Olenna, carrying the roll of heavy fencing to the little tool shed next to the house.

 

Dany leaned her elbows on the rickey fence and rested her chin on her wrists. She took a great, cleansing breath.

 

She closed her eyes, remembering the painting of her home. The canvas she had filled in, night after night, laying on some shitty mattress on some stained carpet, the smell of piss and smoke and other, foul scents the only things to keep her company as she eased herself to sleep.

 

Black bark and yellow hay, woodsmoke and sweet rot… all were here. All here and all she had to do was reach out and take it.

 

+++

 

_Hey there, this is Dany._

 

_Oh my god, who gave you this number?_

 

She smiled, biting her lip. _I’m surprised you can type a message that long, on that rotary phone of yours._

 

To illustrate her point, it took at least a full minute for her phone to ‘ding’ with his reply. _Did they come out with a new type of rotary phone that’s better at this?_

 

She laughed. _Why, yes, they did. It’s called ‘get with the times, old man’._

 

_Interesting marketing angle._

 

She shook her head again, hopelessly charmed. She was just typing out a response when he beat her to it… surprisingly enough.

 

_If you prefer texting, I might consider coming over to the darkside. But, in the meantime, I prefer to talk the old fashioned way._

 

_The old fashioned way? Like, the way invented a hundred years ago?_

 

She watched her phone nervously, suddenly feeling unsure of the ‘joke’, now fully certain that he would never speak to her again. She almost threw her phone across the room in shock as it jingled in her palm-- a call coming in.

 

She breathed out a huge breath, hanging her head and quietly chiding herself before answering. “Hello?”

 

“Really are the stickler, aren’t you?”

 

She grinned, leaning back in her pillows and crossing her legs at the ankle. “I was a history major once upon a time.”

 

A quiet laugh. “I had a sneaking suspicion that you were actually a huge dork.”

 

Dany barked out a mock-outraged breath. “Excuse me, but do you usually insult the women you’re wooing?”

 

“Not insulting,” he insisted. “I happen to like dorks.”

 

She felt her face warm, her mind scrabbling for a proper, impassive response to his admission. True, he had not been wholly secretive of what he felt for her, but she was not really prepared for him speaking it aloud. She cleared her throat. “Lucky for you, then.”

 

“Usually don’t describe myself as lucky,” he said, his voice taking on a roughness that seemed to tingle in her ear.

 

“Things change,” she offered.

 

He laughed. “They sure fucking do.”

 

She dragged a blanket towards her, fiddling and nervous. “I’m glad to see that you successfully survived an Olenna birthday bash.”

 

He hummed. “It was uncertain there for a moment.”

 

“It usually is,” she replied within a laugh. “New Year’s nearly killed me.”

 

There was a small pause, something about the silence tensing, turning prickly. Her good spirits leached away within the long seconds, realizing that her sound rejection at the theatre had occurred just days before New Year’s Eve. He cleared his throat.

 

“Sorry--” she began weakly.

 

“No,” he cut across her sternly. “No, nothing to be sorry about. I’m just-- I’m a bit of a twit, just a warning.”

 

She smiled at his tone-- reassuring and warm. “I can be a bit of a twit, too, so I guess it works out.”

 

He laughed again, falling silent.

 

She closed her eyes, letting herself sink further back into her pillows. “So, Jon Snow, what should we talk about?” she asked easily, tugging her hair from its ponytail and raking her hands through it. The shorter locks were still strange to her fingers, alien and different. “I think I know where to start. My favorite movie is--”

 

Jon let out a stream of babble at that and she stopped, surprised. “What the hell was that about?”

 

“I won’t have conversations like this over the phone,” he declared with some finality. “Favorite movies need to be discussed in person.”

 

She paused, an understanding smirk snaking itself over her lips. “You prepay for minutes don’t you?”

 

Something like a shocked chuff sounded in her ear and she smiled, triumphant. “Yes, but that is not the reason.” He paused. “Well not the _only_ reason.”

 

She laughed, loud and bright. “You really need to get with the times, old man.”

 

“You’ve said that.”

 

“It’s the truth.”

 

She heard him sigh heavily. “Would it be too much of an old man gesture to offer to take you out on a proper date?”

 

She had to bring the phone away from her ear, pressing the mouthpiece to her shoulder-- trying to calm and chide herself in equal measure for the giddy, stupid rush that overcame her at his words. She slowly brought the phone back to her face, taking a deep breath. “If that’s an old man gesture, then count me as an old woman.”

 

He paused and she briefly imagined him repeating the same gesture she had just gone through with much relish, biting her lip against her wide grin. “I’ve heard from reliable sources that you enjoy wine.”

 

She huffed, knowing full well that she had complained often and loudly of how expensive wine was in Montana, how few wineries there were to take advantage of. “A winery?” she asked, trying very hard to keep the elation from her voice. “That is quite a first date, Jon Snow.”

 

“I thought our first date was Olenna’s birthday party,” he replied easily. “It’s only downhill from there, really.”

 

She hummed in agreement. “This _second_ date sounds awful elaborate. Something that I may have to request off work for.”

 

“Aye,” he said and she found herself shaking her head at the second, unironic use of the term she had heard in almost as many days. “Perhaps it should be saved for later. Only a week or two left ‘til calving and you will surely never see me again.”

 

“Perhaps,” she replied, thoughtful. “I’ve heard a lot about this ‘calving’ business. What exactly _is_ that?”

 

“Poor city slicker is ignorant of the joys of calving season,” he replied with an exaggerated sigh. “Should I start with the delightful snow and mud? Or the pleasant smells of cow shit and amniotic fluid?”

 

She groaned. “Oh, my god, Jon.”

 

“No sense in prettying it up for you,” he said within a laugh. “Calving’s when all the cows have their babies. Four to six weeks of watching over grumpy moms and clumsy calves.”

 

“I guess that’s what Robb meant when he said that your sisters like to get away before you’re all ‘trapped’.”

 

“Aye,” he said again and Dany inwardly rolled her eyes, now certain that the Starks must be from another century. “Won’t be seeing much of me. Starting in about…” he trailed off, as if he was consulting a calendar. “Got about eight days until the first calf is expected to drop. ‘Course, it could drop in the next ten minutes. Never really know.”

 

She felt a twist in her belly, something sad and needy. She tugged on a strand of hair, feeling rather ashamed of herself. “So we’ll have a date and then you’ll run off for a month or more?”

 

She heard him release a small, pained breath. “Yeah,” he answered heavily. “Yeah. Does that bother you?”

 

There was tiny, well-hidden note of insecurity in his voice that broke her, just a bit. “Yes,” she returned, “but only because I will miss you.”

 

She heard him give a pleased chuff. “Sorry that the timing is so… unfortunate.”

 

“I’ll forgive you,” she said, smiling. “I can’t make any promises that I won’t run off with any handsome, nearsighted cowboys with an expensive movie habit in the meantime though.”

 

“I am _not_ nearsighted.”

 

“You so are, old man.”

 

They both laughed and fell into an easy, warm silence for a moment. “So, Jon Snow, what should we do before your time in the real world runs out?”

 

“I’ll think of something.”

 

+++

 

“I’ve been hearing an awful lot of giggling coming from your room lately.”

 

Dany peered at her friend, demure. It was a slow, quiet afternoon in Hot Pie’s. They’d come in for a quick bite before both their shifts at the theatre. “Are you eavesdropping, you sick freak?”

 

Missy tilted a shoulder, unaffected, as she stirred her coffee. “It’s hard not to, when I live across the hall and you’re squawking like a hen.”

 

Dany flung an ice cube at her, smiling. “You’re awful.”

 

“Am not,” Missy insisted. “I am simply happy that my friend has found someone who makes her laugh like a damn middle schooler.”  

 

Dany bit her lip, twirling the straw in her Coke, trying not to blush. “He is… witty.”

 

Missy leaned forward on the table, arms crossed. “When are you getting together again?”

 

Dany looked down at that, a bit disappointed. “He’s so busy. I’m not really sure.” She looked back up at her friend, tapping a nail on her glass. “There isn’t much hope for it getting better, either. Calving starts in six days, according to Jon.”

 

“Look at you, already talking like a cowboy!” Missy declared, laughing. Dany rolled her eyes as her friend leaned closer to her, looking thoughtful. “But seriously… that shouldn’t be a bad thing, right? You’re the one who wants to take it slow. This kind of, well, forces the matter… doesn’t it?”

 

Dany hung her head, the truth in her friend’s words making her feel... odd. For the past two days, as she and Jon had exchanged texts and phone calls, she could not help but contemplate the strange, mysterious fog that was Jon’s unknowable life on the range and how it would swallow him up and likely his cell signal for perhaps a month or more.

 

It was true, she thought bitterly to herself, that this looming obstacle to the progression of… whatever this was growing between them would sufficiently stall it. Would allow her to step back and breathe, to think on him and what he meant. To contemplate her next move— stay or flee.

 

But every time she dared to face it, the thought of him disappearing from her life again… she could not think of it further than that. She steadfastly refused to consider it until it would surely be too late and she would not be able to handle it much at all.

 

She looked back up at her friend and smiled weakly as she took one list bite of her blueberry pie. “Perhaps you’re right.”

 

Missy grinned, something wicked and suggestive lighting her eyes. “Doesn’t mean you can’t have some… fun, in the meantime, though.”

 

Dany leaned back in her seat, shaking her head. “You’re awful.”

 

“You’ve said that.”

 

She took a prim sip of her Coke. “Because it’s true.”

 

“You can’t sit here and tell me that you haven’t even _thought_ about it.”

 

Despite her best efforts to the contrary, Dany blushed furiously. Just hours before, she had woken earlier than was usual, a strange, nervous energy gripping her and a tight ache between her legs. She had relieved it with her fingers, biting her pillow with a moan of sweet release— the vivid image of him bent over her and slick with sweat driving her over that sharp edge.

 

It certainly wasn’t the first time she had touched herself, but her imaginings had scarcely ever manifested themselves so clearly, had been so anchored in reality.

 

Missy threw her head back with a triumphant laugh. “Don’t look so ashamed,” she said with a scoff. “If you hadn’t by now, I’d be checking for a pulse.”

 

+++

 

It was the next day, Thursday, when she saw him next.

 

 _Like old times,_ she thought oddly to herself as she watched him amble up to the booth.

 

“What’ll it be today, old man?” she asked with a smirk as he came to a stop in front of her, hands in his jacket pockets, grinning like a fool.

 

“One for _Logan_ , please,” he answered, leaning his elbows on the counter, bringing his eyes level with her own.

 

She blushed, his dark eyes truly striking. She punched his order in. “A little mainstream for you, isn’t it?”

 

“You must really think I’m a snob.”

 

She shrugged. “Maybe a little,” she answered, passing him his ticket. He straightened, pocketing it. “You know, you have to pay for that.”

 

He spread his hands, still tucked in his pockets, making him look like a great, gangly bat. “What? I don’t get free movies, now that we’re dating?”

 

She felt her heart leap as she laughed. “No, I’m afraid not.” She crossed her arms and leaned her elbows on the counter in front of her. “Sorry to disappoint.”

 

He shook his head, grin ghosting his lips as he pulled his wallet out of his jeans pocket. “Simply outrageous.”

 

“Is this it, then?” she asked, brows raised. “Are we finished?”

 

“It does not bode well, no,” he said, passing her a twenty under the glass.

 

She made his change with a smirk and he took it, fingers curling over her own briefly. She squeezed back, grinning and helpless. “Enjoy your movie, old man.”

 

He laughed, the sound loud and joyful and coming from his belly, before shaking his head and walking through the doors.

 

The warmth that spread through her stayed for a long time after.

 

+++

 

She was quite surprised, when she came home that night, to find Robb Stark sitting with Margaery in the parlor.

 

“Dany!” Robb exclaimed, coming to his feet and leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. “It’s nice to see you.”

 

“Thanks, Robb,” she returned uncertainly, looking between him and Margaery. “Are you joining us for dinner?”

 

Robb nodded enthusiastically as he embraced an equally bewildered Missy beside her. “Nice to see you, Missy.”

 

“Robb says it’s one of his last nights out,” Margaery explained with a smile. “Wanted to spend it here, for some reason.”

 

Dany and Missy both exchanged knowing looks. “Don’t you leave tomorrow, Marg?” Missy asked lightly, smiling wickedly at Robb, who flushed spectacularly.

 

Before anyone could respond, Tyrion came in belatedly, having closed the theater up early as he always did on Thursdays. He was loaded down with the weekly liquor delivery. “Well, well, a rare sight indeed, Robb: a Stark outside the Stark Ranch.”

 

Robb laughed as he walked up to the man struggling with the heavy paper bags in his arms. “Can I help you with those bags, Tyrion?”

 

“Sure,” Tyrion said as he handed them over hastily. “To the kitchen.”

 

Robb nodded and was just stepping to leave when Dany blurted: “Is your brother going to join us too?”

 

Robb’s face fell, something like guilt crossing over his brow. “He’s actually covering for me.” He glanced over at Margaery before leaning closer to her, voice low and candid. “He told me to tell you that it is purely my fault and that I am a selfish prick and that he wishes he could be here instead of being elbow-deep in cow shit.”

 

Dany quirked an eyebrow. “That is a good brother.”

 

Robb nodded, throwing a sheepish look in Margaery’s direction. “The best.”

 

+++

 

“Hello?”

 

The voice greeting her on the other end seemed rather gruff— sleep-roughed and dozy.

 

“Sorry I woke you, old man,” she said breathlessly, trying very hard to sound level and calm, even as her eyes darted back over her shoulder nervously. Jon proved to be surprisingly affectionate of the nighttime hours, despite his rise-with-the-sun lifestyle. However, this did not prevent him from passing out on his couch every so often at eight o’clock or earlier. “But I need you to talk to me.”

 

She heard a rustle from the other end, like someone sitting up from a prone position. “Alright?” he slurred, sleepy voice cracking with urgency.

 

She didn’t answer for a minute, turning her head just a fraction to catch sight of the car trailing behind her.

 

“Dany?” He really sounded freaked out now.

 

“I’m alright,” she finally answered. “Just. Stay on the phone with me for a bit.”

 

“Of course,” he said, voice fully awake. “What is it? What’s going on?” She heard the unmistakable sound of car keys jingling in her ear. “Need me to pick you up?”

 

She felt her heart leap in her throat as the car finally sped up, engine whining, zooming past her and up the main road. She stopped, feeling the fear flow away with her adrenaline, leaving her a weak and shaking mess. “Dany?” She heard his voice echo from her phone. She had unknowingly lowered it from her face-- readying herself for some sort of fight. She lifted the phone back to her ear. “Fuck, Dany, talk to me.”

 

“I’m okay,” she assured, leaning heavily against the brick wall of the bank she stood in front of. “It’s—“

 

“Tell me where you are,” Jon said, voice dark, maybe even a bit scared. She didn’t know what to think about that. “I’ll come pick you up.”

 

She bit her lip, warring with herself. Truth was, she didn’t need him to come pick her up. Olenna’s Datsun sat parked just a half a block away. Truth was, she wasn’t a damsel. She had been dealing with this cloak and dagger shit for years.

 

But, the truth _also_ was that she was fucking tired, that the thought of seeing him was overwhelmingly pleasant, that she could hear the sound of his noisy truck firing up in her ear.

 

“At the Bank of Montana,” she said, wiping an inexplicable tear from her face. _Fuck_ , she thought, _I am so fucked._

 

“I’ll be there in ten,” he declared, unrealistically. He was at least 13 miles away. “Just… keep talking to me.”

 

She leaned her head against the cold bricks at her back, oddly wishing for a cigarette. “A band of rogue college freshmen rolled in today.”

 

“Oh,” he said knowingly. “Spring breakers. They like to wander in here every now and then. The beer brings them in, mostly.”

 

Dany managed a small smile. “Tyrion yelled at them.”

 

There was a small, scandalized pause on the other end. “I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t give me a play-by-play via text of this.”

 

She laughed, scuffing her shoe on the wet concrete. “You’re off being a cowboy, Jon. I don’t want to bother you.”

 

“Please, Dany,” he said, something so sweet and earnest in his voice that it made her melt, just a bit. “Please bother me.”

 

She pressed the phone to her chest, releasing a great breath, hating him. Hating his humor, his honesty, his good heart. She bit her lip hard and brought the phone back up to her face. “I will remember that,” she manage, voice hitching only a fraction. “Where should I start?”

 

“At the beginning,” he said, a smile evident within his voice. “Tell me everything.”

 

+++

 

“You have to be freezing,” she said as she stepped up into the cab of his truck.

 

He had failed to pull on so much as a long-sleeved tee, sitting bare armed and much too distracting behind the wheel. He didn't forget his gun or holster though, slung hastily about his broad shoulders over his thin, white tee. “It’s not the most comfortable I’ve ever been, I’ll give you that.”

 

His hair was totally undone as well, falling thick and tousled as sagebrush down his neck, curling almost girlishly under his ears. She was starting to seriously regret her decision to let him come and get her.

 

“So,” he began, “where to?”

 

She cleared her throat, her doubt truly settling in. Olenna’s car was about 200 yards behind them. “I’m sorry, Jon,” she finally managed. “I made you drive all the way out here and…”

 

“If I recall, you did not make me do anything,” he replied, putting his truck in gear and nudging it slowly forward. “I kind of… I just went a bit nuts. I was— scared.”

 

“I know,” she responded quietly, picking a thumbnail. “I… thank you. For being here.”

 

He gave her a sidelong glance, his eyes dark and worried. “Hey,” he said quietly, continuing his way slowly down the road. “I’m here.”

 

She sniffed, suddenly feeling foolish— seated with this beautiful man with a loaded gun in his old, rusty truck— all because she felt like a car had been following her.

 

Whether it truly had been or not was not really the issue at hand here. The _real_ issue was that she was fucked up enough to believe that it probably had been and whatever else the case— it would surely scare away this man with a bow for lips and a heart seemingly as pure as spring water and just as sweet.

 

“Can you tell me about it?” he asked, glancing worriedly at her. “Please?”

 

She cleared her throat, careful to keep her shoulder pushed to the door, far away from his heat, his sleepy scent. “I thought a car was following me.”

 

Jon stared resolutely out the windscreen, contemplative. “I take it this hasn’t been the first time this happened?”

 

She shook her head, looking to her cuticles.

 

He sighed. “I’m fucking glad you called me,” he said, turning down the road that would take them to Olenna’s. He glanced her way, a small smirk on his face. “Can I take this the way I’d like to?”

 

“Which way is that?”

 

“That you trust me,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “Maybe not fully, or even _mostly_ , but... still.”

 

She hadn’t even thought of that. When she had called him… well, she hadn’t thought of much of anything, really. And now— well, she was trying very hard not to consider what, exactly, that might mean.

 

“I’ve been on my own for a long time, Jon,” she finally answered. “I thought I had forgotten how to… _rely_ on other people.” She looked over at him, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I’m still not quite sure how I feel about it. But— I think I could get used to it.” She tucked a stray hair behind her hair, sinking herself further into her hoodie as she smiled, courage quickening. “Especially when the response time is so quick.”

 

She watched as the corner of his mouth flicked up, swift and small, almost lost to the orange flicker of the sparse street lights. “Good.”

 

They were silent for a long while and Dany tried to keep her eyes averted, staring out at the black, moon-washed trunks of alder and larch speeding past the window.

 

“Why don’t you go to the police?” Jon finally asked, voice quiet and unsure. “Sheriff Davos is a friend of mine, you know. I could ask him—“

 

“No,” she said a bit too forcefully. She closed her eyes and sighed, too tired of it all to explain to him that cops had never been any help to her, were not the best allies for women in her particular situation. “No… thank you though.”

 

“Okay,” he responded, his tone slow and patient. They were silent again for quite some time, just the sound of water splashing up from the tires to fill the tense space of the cab, the streets wet and gleaming with a recent rain.

 

“I want to help, Dany,” he finally ventured, voice cracking just a bit. “I’m… trying—”

 

“I know, Jon, I know,” she said, voice soaked through with helplessness. “It will… it’ll get better. _I’ll_ get better. I promise.”

 

He nodded, turning down the long, bumpy drive to Olenna’s house. He pulled up to the front of the house, cutting off his lights and turning to her, arm resting across the steering wheel, eyes depthless and thoughtful. “Do you ride?”

 

She froze, feeling her insides squirm, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “A little,” she finally managed… a half lie. She could fake being vaguely familiar better than purely ignorant. “Rode when I was little.”

 

He looked away, nodding. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

 

Her stomach almost leapt right out of her mouth. She cleared her throat. She _had_ planned on helping her fellow residents prepare the beds for the many vegetables Olenna would be planting in the coming months… maybe doing a bit of sketching under the huge Ponderosa pine behind Tyrion’s carriage house later.

 

“Nothing.”

 

He grinned, scratching his brow with his thumb. “Want to go for a ride?”

 

+++

 

 _What a life I lead when the sun breaks free_  
_As a giant torn from the clouds_  
_What a life indeed when that ancient seed_ _  
_ Is a-buried, watered and plowed

 

 _“Sun Giant”_ Fleet Foxes

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a huge round of applause to [Justwanderingneverlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/pseuds/justwanderingneverlost) for the stunning mood board. LOOK AT THAT!! The theatre and the house are so perfect I can't stop staring. 
> 
> Secondly, thank you oh so much to the Tarts for their continued supports and love-- without which I may well be bouncing in a rubber room by now. In particular to my precious cowboy mom [Sparkles59](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkles59/pseuds/sparkles59). Without her guidance and wisdom I probably would have stalled out on this a while ago!
> 
> AND OF COURSE a huge shout-out goes to my beta, [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal) for giving this a once-over. :D
> 
> Of course, thanks to you precious readers. Y'all are why us crazy writers do this, after all, so please let me know what you think! 
> 
>  (Come say hi @freshhexes on tumblr)
> 
> **  
> **  
> [Be sure to check out the 2017 Jonerys Fanfic Award Winners too! We should be so proud to have such talent in this community!](http://noordinarylines.tumblr.com/post/170633763840/congratulations-to-all-of-the-2017-jonerys)  
> 


	5. SPRING, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She teased and whined spectacularly the whole way back to the cabin, the sun sinking behind their shoulders. He took it all in stride, a silly grin plastered on his face. 
> 
> She could tell him, later, that it had been one of the best days of her life, but for now she was going to give him hell.

****  
  


She squinted against the sun that cracked through the purple clouds, nudging Olenna’s winging Datsun up the slope, through the dusty, winding track that would lead her to the foreman’s cabin of the Stark Ranch... eventually, she hoped. 

 

“There’s a split to the left about a mile into the main drive,” he had explained, drawing her a crude and fairly useless map on the back of a Hot Pie’s receipt, using his steering wheel as an easel. “Take the split. It’ll be about a mile after that. I’ll be there.” She had taken up the crinkled paper within forefinger and thumb and had dared to press a clumsy kiss on his cheek, before fleeing his truck like a blushing maid. 

 

She had nearly gone mad after she had gotten back into the solitary safety of her room— thinking of what he could possibly have planned. He had told her to wear riding clothes and a thermal if she had one but gave her no other indication of how long she would be there, of what, exactly ‘going for a ride’ meant. 

 

She certainly had not enjoyed asking Missy to drive her to Olenna’s car that night. Her friend had simply raised her eyebrows at her in the mirror, humming in a knowing sort of way through her toothbrush. 

 

She just hoped he had some coffee for her. She was not very fond of waking up anytime before eleven in the morning-- yet here she was, her teeth jangling in her head as the Datsun struggled up the rutted trail, the new sun glinting off the mottled hills, white and black like the bellies of dairy cows.

 

After what seemed like hours, a tiny little cabin appeared at the top of the hill. A thin trail of blue smoke filtered from the chimney with snow piled on the eaves, dripping with melt. Split wood was stacked neatly next to one of the the walls. It was all hopelessly picturesque. 

 

She pulled up, the track winding from behind the house to the front yard. Jon stood from where he had been sitting on the narrow front porch, waving her to where his own truck was parked under a rusty carport on the side of the cabin. 

 

She tried very hard not gawk as she caught sight of him. He was dressed in dark-wash jeans and a red pullover that clung to him just fucking  _ right _ . If his hair had been down, she was sure that she would probably be drooling. 

 

She tightened her hands on the steering wheel, trying to gather herself. 

 

She came to a stop and yanked on the delightfully unpredictable parking brake. She looked around, seeing no one else.

 

She became very aware that this was  _ his _ house, that she was to be very, very alone with this man in  _ his house _ . She took a deep breath, quelling the fear that sparked deep in her mind before it could catch, before it could spread its flames and engulf her entirely— ruining this day before it even began. 

 

She cut the engine and clambered out of the low-slung little car. “Not the most practical for dusty trails,” she moaned as she unfolded her stiff legs. 

 

He laughed as he walked forward, keeping the door open for her. “No, I suppose not.” 

 

She circled to the trunk, dragging out her battered riding boots and her bag with the thermal she had borrowed from Gendry weeks ago and a change of clothes. “You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you?”

 

He smiled, taking her bag for her and leading her inside. 

 

The first thing she noticed was the dramatic temperature change. It was so warm inside it was almost sweltering. 

 

The entire ground floor consisted of a kitchen in the far corner and a living room centered around an ancient wood burning stove. A dark leather couch that looked cracked and scuffed, but otherwise plush and comfy stood before the stove. The battered couch was paired with an equally battered coffee table, piled with magazines— “New Yorker”s and “Field and Stream”s and “Vice”s. A sturdy old bookshelf bursting with books and other bric-a-brac stood at the opposite wall. All was lit by the obliging windows or else a floor or table lamp. Threadbare, hand-me-down rugs lined the old, shiny wood floors. To top it off, the mixed wood walls were covered in a veritable plethora of very familiar-looking charcoal sketches— some framed, some not. 

 

It was all so…  _ comfy _ . Seeing this place, this space he called home… it was intimate enough for her to feel a thrill run through her veins. 

 

“You take cream and sugar?” Jon asked as he walked past where she had stopped to examine the space. He picked up a metal percolator from the stovetop and waggled it at her. 

 

She sagged in relief as she shrugged out of her coat. “Yes, please, both.”

 

He set about pouring her a cup as she hung her coat on a hook on the wall next to the door. 

 

She looked down at a soft ‘meow’ and the feel of a warm body brushing against her ankles. A large black cat stood at her feet, blinking up at her with wide, golden eyes. “Oh, hey there, buddy,” she cooed as she crouched to scratch the cat between the ears. He purred happily under her fingers. 

 

“That’s Binx,” Jon called from his spot in the kitchen. “He’s the local barn cat, but he seems to like it here.”

 

As if to illustrate his point, Binx trotted back over to his little bed of towels and an old faded quilt next to the stove. Dany got the distinct impression that Jon was being overly modest in describing his relationship with said ‘barn cat’. In addition to the handmade bed there were a few cat toys scattered around on the floor and a food and water bowl next to the fridge. “Fan of  _ Hocus Pocus _ I see,” she said as she straightened up again. 

 

Jon shrugged, a bit bashful. “Who isn’t?”

 

Dany laughed as she took the offered (and seemingly pilfered) Hot Pie’s mug from his hand. She took a careful, too-hot sip, feeling the warmth spread through her as good as a slug of whisky. “Oh,” she nearly moaned, closing her eyes, relishing the taste. “Now, this is a proper cup of coffee.”

 

He smiled, leaning against the counter and taking a sip from his own mug-- a chipped relic with the printed logo of a livestock auction in a place called ‘King’s Land’. “So,” he said, waving a hand. “This is it. You’ve officially been to my place.”

 

She nodded at one of the pictures hanging beside the window to the right of the front door: a bucking horse all flying tail and mane. “Those sketches look awful familiar.” 

 

Jon hummed. “Used to do some work for Olenna in exchange,” he said as he walked to the one she was currently admiring, straightening it a bit. “Always loved her stuff.”

 

“It’s beautiful,” she said, eyes sweeping over the cozy little space again. Jon was certainly clean, she’d give him that. She now felt a flash of shame thinking of her own sparse room, strewn with clothes and crowded with boxes and suitcases. She wondered what he thought of it, when he had helped her into her bed the night of Olenna’s party.  “I mean, in a kind of… rustic way, but it really is.”

 

“Thanks,” Jon said with a laugh. 

 

She walked over to lean her hips against the tiled counter next to the impossibly old, avocado-green fridge, diagonal from him. “I have two questions.”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“First, where do you sleep?” She purposefully avoided his eyes, her gaze darting around to find a secret door she hadn’t noticed.

 

He cleared his throat and pointed to the ceiling. “Attic.”

 

She blinked, confused. “You sleep in an… attic?” 

 

“Well, it’s a finished attic,” he protested with an amused huff, almost choking on his coffee. “There’s heat and stuff. And a bathroom. But yes.” He pointed at a ladder in the back corner opposite where they were standing that she hadn’t noticed before. She stepped closer, her curiosity overwhelming… a fucking attic? Really?

 

She looked up the steep little ladder, seeing an open trapdoor and a sloped, wooden roof beyond.

 

“Did you… want to see it?” 

 

She nearly jumped out of her skin-- he had somehow come to stand directly behind her beyond her awareness. She turned around and his eyes were entirely too much, too close.

 

“No, no…” she said hastily. “Next time.”

 

She expected some sort of disappointment, perhaps some sign of discomfiture at her odd behavior, but the corner of his mouth quirked up as he puffed out a pleased laugh. “Next time.” 

 

Something deep and gravelly in his voice made the hairs on her arms stand on end and she had to walk away, back to the safe space that was the kitchen. 

 

“You had a second question?” he asked, placing his mug down and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

 

“Why here?” she said, waving a hand at the room at large. “Isn’t your sister foreman?”

 

Something like pain flickered over his face at that and he glanced down at his feet. “She is… but this is a better place for me. As far away I can get from the Stark family home without living entirely off the property.” 

 

She felt a pang of remorse, having brought up such a thing. “Jon, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to--”

 

“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug, though his shoulders were tense. “Makes sense that you would ask. It’s fine.”

 

She bit her lip, finishing the rest of her coffee. “Well, it’s nice that you have your own place, at any rate.”

 

“Aye,” he said and Dany idly wondered if she’d ever get used to the Stark family’s affection for that particular word. 

 

“So, Jon Snow, what do you have planned for us today?”

 

Jon smiled. “Follow me.”

 

+++ 

 

The stable was a short walk down the hill from the cabin. It was a small building that had ‘settled’ and so was slightly cock-eyed. But it did have handsome stone walls that looked as old as the surrounding countryside and a sloped slate roof. It was almost like the stables of her childhood. “This one’s just for me,” he called over his shoulder to her. “Oldest building on the ranch besides the main house.”

 

“Are your siblings going to be joining us?” she asked, glancing around. “And where  _ is _ the main house?” 

 

“Everyone else is off to the supermarket, getting supplies for the calving.” Jon answered as he swung the barn doors open. “And the house is just over that hill there,” he continued, pointing north. There was a well-worn and rutted trail running from the stable and over said hill. “Only about a quarter mile. Got the main house, two stables, bunch of corrals and paddocks and the bunkhouses over that way.”

 

Dany stopped at the stable entrance, impossibly curious, questions buzzing in her brain like gnats. “Why is the foreman’s house so far?” 

 

He shrugged. “It isn’t  _ actually  _ the foreman’s house. We don’t really have an  _ official  _ one, since the foreman is always a family member.” He looked back up to his little cabin. “It’s an old hunting cabin. My grandfather built it. He liked this little stable. Didn’t want to see it go to waste.” He turned his eyes to her again, smirking. “He was also fond of solitude.”

 

She snorted and they walked through the wide doors.

 

Inside was four stalls-- all impeccably clean. The  _ smell _ … god… it was heavenly and unmistakable and universal. The must of hay and the sour scent of sweat and animal, the aroma of manure sweet and foul at once. 

 

He came to a stop in front of the first stall, where a massive, white, wall-eyed head popped over the door. “This is Ghost,” Jon said lovingly as he pinched the horse on his neck and chuffed him under the chin. 

 

“Oh,  _ Jon _ ,” she whispered as she came closer. “He’s just beautiful.”

 

Jon smiled proudly as she offered the beast an open palm. The horse was white as milk. Glowing and, well,  _ ghostly _ in the pale dawn that spilled through the barn doors. She opened her palm under Ghost’s curious, dry lips. “Quarter horse?” she asked.

 

Jon narrowed his eyes curiously. “How’d you know?” 

 

Dany shrugged, playing it off. “That’s what most cowboys use, isn’t it?”

 

He regarded her, something like skepticism flashing in his eyes. He glanced down at her riding boots unconsciously. He had commented on them as she had pulled them on before they had set out. He knew the brand, knew they were top of the line and very pricey. She had brushed it off as an ill-advised gift, though the evidence of their heavy use was plain to see. 

 

He decided against saying anything more on it and took her by the elbow to lead her over the stall across the hall. “This is Summer,” he said, releasing her arm just in time for her to give herself a little shake. “He’s my second youngest brother’s horse, but he’s gone off to college, so I keep him here, give him a ride once in awhile.” Summer looked at her curiously. He was beautiful-- a tall, slender creature with a dun colored coat and inky black mane and tail. 

 

She held out her hand to him, a welter of warmth and contentment growing within her as the horse sighed into her palm, nibbling at the crown of her hair. 

 

“Yeah, he does that, sorry,” Jon laughed from beside her. “He likes hair.”

 

She shook her head. “He’s perfect.” 

 

He tapped a knuckle on the top of the stall door. “Can you tack him up yourself?”

 

Dany felt a blush creep up her neck despite herself. She took a step back and hung her head, feigning embarrassment. “It’s been so long…” It had indeed been about three years, but she doubted seriously that she couldn’t tack up the horse in front with her eyes closed. 

 

Jon squinted at her again, biting his lip and she really wished he wouldn’t. “Alright,” he finally said. “Do you think you handle grooming him until I can get Ghost tacked up?”

 

She nodded and he wandered off to fetch the grooming kit no doubt. She hummed to Summer in front of her, lost for a moment. 

 

Horses were a very bright spot in her very shadowed past. The Targaryens were famous in the Thoroughbred game-- had been for at least three generations. Her parents-- even her mother-- saw the horses merely as investments, whereas she always found friends in their fiery personalities, beauty in their power and grace. Her mother could scarcely ever get her out of the stables and fields long enough for her lessons or any of the other dull activities that were supposed to make her a lady.

 

Dany smiled to herself, feeling more at home than she had in an age, and leaned her forehead to Summer’s snout. 

 

She turned when she heard his footfalls stop. 

 

He was looking at her as if he had just stumbled upon a new spring after days of thirst. 

 

She leaned away from the stall, feeling mortified, being looked at in such a way… by such a man-- a saddle slung over his shoulder, a bit swinging at his knees. She felt something hot and liquid pool in her belly. 

 

He seemed to snap out of it, walking closer, placing the bucket full of curry combs and body brushes near her feet. “This’ll be your saddle,” he said, not meeting her eyes as he hefted it onto the wall of the stall, hanging the bridle on the horn. “I’ll be back to cinch for you in a bit.”

 

She watched him march back from where he’d come-- the tiny little tack room to the left of the doors. She bit her lip, looking back to Summer, deciding that grooming a horse was as good of a distraction as any from what just happened. 

 

+++ 

 

_ Fuck, _ it felt good to be back on a horse. 

 

Of course, this would not change the fact that she was never going to let him live this down… if whatever this thing between them did end up going anywhere near where she wanted.

 

She had watched with only the tiniest bit of indulgence as he had cinched up the girth, had easily fed Summer his bit, secured the martingale. She even let him help her into the saddle, enjoying the fact that he went for making a step with his hands rather than taking the opportunity-- as most other men would have-- to grab her by the waist. 

 

But then he had handed her a musty pair of work gloves and some heavy wire cutters. At her confused look he laughed and shrugged. “It’s Sunday, but I still have work to do.” 

 

And  _ then _ he fastened a belt with a very large pistol in the holster around his hips and she almost had a fit. “Wolves,” he explained, as if  _ that _ should comfort her. 

 

“Keep your eyes peeled for rusted, sagging wire,” he had called to her over his shoulder when they had finally reached the outer fence. She became rather good at spotting it, having helped the head porter at Targaryen Farms with a similar task-- only she had been looking for rotted posts and kicked-in planks. 

 

She spotted her first prize within the first quarter mile and shouted at him in some triumph. He pulled Ghost around, and she had to look away, enjoying the sight of him and his easy grace in the saddle far too much. He pulled a spool of orange tape from his saddlebag and tied it off on the offending wire. “Gotta come back later, with more people and some heavy equipment. Patch it up that way,” he explained. 

 

She nodded, but then looked over at him suspiciously. “So… what are these for?” she asked as she pulled the wire cutters he had given her out of her saddle bag. 

 

He threw his head back and laughed. “Those are for misdirection.” 

 

She shoved the offending object back in the bag, trying with all her strength to not laugh, to seem annoyed.

 

+++

 

They rode for miles like that. 

 

They eventually came to a place in the fence that already had a little orange marker tied on it. “Theon, Yara, and I have been on this for most of the winter. They started from the north,” he told her as they pulled away from the fence, trotting their horses more interior, towards the west. “Seems like we’re finally done.”

 

The world rolled around them as they rode, Stark Ranch being unique in that it was seated in the low, rippling foothills of the Rockies, instead of the much flatter prairie to the east. “Have some prairie further south, but it’s mostly hilly steppe,” Jon explained to her, unprompted.

 

They rode under an endless sky, wisps of clouds kissing the jagged shoulders of the Rockies to the west and north. The now mostly bare slopes around them were blotted by stands of dark cedar and fir. The horses’ hooves crunched over dry sage and sedge. 

 

And it was so  _ quiet _ , only the breath of the wind through the bare, rubbing branches breaking the silence. 

 

“This place will be unrecognizable before you know it. Just green grass and dozens of wildflowers.”

 

Dany felt something queer grow in her chest when she realized what he was doing. Introducing her to his home, his very life. Showing her what, exactly, ran so deep in his veins— black sourwood and white horsehair. A land of age innumerable-- hills made of mountain and prairies made of hill. 

 

“That’s where I broke my ankle, that stand of trees over there,” he said with a nod to a little copse of trees just east of them. When she asked asked him what happened he simply shrugged. “Being a stupid kid,” he answered. 

 

“Got caught up in that fence there few seasons ago… got gored.” 

 

She stopped her horse at that, and Jon turned in his saddle to look back at her, frowning. “ _ Gored? _ ”

 

“Long story. Tell you about it later,” he responded grimly and she didn’t pry further. 

 

After awhile, they stopped by the stony bed of a still half-frozen brook. He offered her a canteen full of steaming coffee and a paper bag of jerky. “This is fresh,” he said with a knowing grin. “Not the corner store stuff.”

 

She ate and drank gratefully, her breath puffing before her, her cheeks stinging with the cold that still clung to the wind. She felt oddly younger, wild and fierce-- some wood sprite living within the scrubby cottonwoods and wild sage. 

 

He set about hobbling the horses so they could graze the smattering of fresh shoots peeking from the thin snow. He pulled a rolled blanket from his saddle and laid it out, waving his arms to it in an overly fancy manner. She laughed, settling down onto the dusty old scrap of cloth. 

 

The jerky was fucking fantastic and she didn’t even mind it when he sat closer to her than he strictly needed… his left leg sealed with her right from knee to hip. She knocked the toe of her boot into his and he grinned through a mouthful of jerky, blushing sweetly and she was coming to realize that she might be everso fucked.

 

With the jerky polished off and the canteen empty, he let her shoot his gun, no doubt noticing her eyeing it as it lay beside his feet. 

 

His hands were careful not to linger as he braced her up, showed her the correct hold, the wide stance needed for such a weapon. She squeezed the trigger, trying her damndest to keep her eyes open at the old trunk she was aiming at as he had insisted.  

 

Her heart leapt out of her chest and she whooped in triumph, body singing with adrenaline. “You’re absolutely terrible,” he said with a wide grin. “But I can teach you.” 

 

She was panting a little as she handed the gun back to him, stock-first. “And what, pray tell, are your credentials, Jon Snow?” she asked skeptically, eager to see these skills his sisters had went on for so long about at the brewery. 

 

He shook his head, endeared, and she watched as he showed off a bit, giving her what she could only describe later as “some wild west, Annie Oakley, high-noon shit”. 

 

She teased and whined spectacularly the whole way back to the cabin, the sun sinking behind their shoulders. He took it all in stride, a silly grin plastered on his face. 

 

She could tell him, later, that it had been one of the best days of her life, but for now she was going to give him hell. 

 

+++ 

 

“I think the least you owe me is a hot meal.” 

 

He leaned away from where he had been examining the glum contents of his fridge. “I have… eggs.” He stood up, styrofoam carton in his hands. “And only two.”

 

“Any bacon?” she asked, shucking off her boots with a grateful sigh. She leaned back in the lumpy couch, feeling sore and sweaty and it felt so  _ sweet _ . Binx jumped up with a begging mewl, eager for ear scratches and Dany obliged. 

 

“No… afraid not,” he answered as he bent to return the eggs to the fridge.

 

“Well that is quite a problem.” She paused, thinking it over. “There’s always Hot Pie’s,” she offered. 

 

“If we go out in public in any capacity I need a shower.” 

 

She blushed, not only at the sudden, vivid image of him naked and wet that flashed in her mind, but also because she was quite certain that she smelled and looked just as bad, if not worse. “Yeah, me too,” she managed, as casual as possible. Today, casual seemed to consist of her voice cracking and her skin going hot.

 

“You go first,” he said. “That way you’ll get all the hot water,” he said, a bit sheepish. “I gotta feed the horses anyway.” 

 

She smiled, an odd mix of thankfulness and frustration warring within her. His careful discretion was more than she could ever ask for or hope to expect. When he had agreed to ‘slow’ just a over a week ago, he was not just saying something to placate her, to get her to let her guard down. She was relieved, but also strangely annoyed. 

 

He pointed at the ladder. “Bathroom’s that way. Can’t miss it. There’s a shelf with towels and the like.” 

 

With that he was out the door with a clatter and she was left blinking and dazed on his couch. 

 

+++ 

 

His bedroom… god, his bedroom.

 

Her already-weak resolve was wobbling on a thread, and now she was standing in his fucking  _ bedroom _ .

 

A plush looking queen mattress with comfy pillows and coverlet stood in the middle of the room. The wood-planked roof sloped dramatically, making the whole space utterly cozy. Curtained windows on either wall sat almost floor-level, spilling wine-red sun over the pale wood of the floor. A surprisingly modern-looking TV sat opposite the bed, along with a shelf bursting with DVDs. A cluttered desk and an ancient phone sat in front of the window farthest from her. 

 

And it _ smelled  _ so much like him. Something strange and old… clove and tobacco, the tang of sweat and the sweetness of wood and earth.

 

It wasn’t until she stepped out of the tiny shower that she realized that now  _ she _ would smell like him. 

 

She climbed down the little ladder and Jon was on the couch, cross-legged and engrossed in a magazine. Some sort of publication about film, it seemed. “All done,” she chimed as she toweled her hair. 

 

He looked up at her and stood, as if pulled up on a lead. “You look…” he cleared his throat, shook his head. “Nice. You look nice.”

 

She smiled at him, a bit ruefully. Her change of clothes consisted of jeans, sneakers, and an old tee from a taco place she had worked at briefly in Colorado. She knew it looked good on her, had chosen it specifically. “Thanks.”

 

+++ 

 

He emerged from the shower ten minutes later and she was only slightly disappointed to see that he had pulled back his hair. She was hoping that maybe she’d get to see it-- tousled and wet and shining and what the  _ fuck _ was wrong with her? 

 

But she soon had bigger things to worry about as they made their way outside, breath puffing in the chill of the new night air, looking from car to car. 

 

She turned towards him as he stopped, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I can, uh… I can drive, take you back here after. Not to…” he fumbled, looking uncomfortable. “Just... so you can return Olenna’s car.” 

 

She thought about it for a very long, difficult moment. She wanted nothing more than to be a normal woman then. To tell this beautiful man with his warm hands and good heart to take her to dinner in  _ his _ car so they could both come back to the same place after and do what normal people do. 

 

“I think it’s best if we drive separate,” she finally managed, her words forced through a small space. 

 

She could see his throat work, his eyes narrow, but he nodded, looking down. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll lead… the track is dangerous this time of night anyway.”

 

She climbed into the little Datsun and bent her forehead to the cold steering wheel, cursing herself again and again.

 

+++ 

 

Hot Pie’s was quiet and all of Jon’s good humor seemed to have bled away with the trek. 

 

She shifted in her hard seat, feeling endlessly uncomfortable. They had exchanged nothing but pleasantries since they had arrived, and now they were stuck waiting for their food. She couldn’t decide if she was sad or relieved that Gilly wasn’t working tonight. 

 

“I know I’ve made you properly miserable, but I really had a great time today,” she finally offered, desperate to see his eyes again, his smile.

 

He looked up at her, looking unconvinced, but nodded. He took a long draw of his coffee and placed the mug back down, looking at his hands, pensive. “Dany, I really like you,” he finally said, the words seeming to sap all his strength. “I know you have to go slow. And I probably need to as well, but… we’ve got to be honest with each other.”

 

She simply blinked at him, paralyzed, found out. 

 

He looked back up at her, squinting. “Where did you learn to ride?”

 

She pulled her lips over her teeth and looked down at her lap. She thought, fleetingly, of giving him nothing, of pushing him away further… but then what would be the point to this? Of her willfully putting herself in his hands? Only to snatch herself away and leave him a broken mess. No, no one deserved that-- least of all the man sitting in front of her. “I’ve been riding since I was four,” she admitted, looking into his eyes, braver than she felt. “My parents had horses.” 

 

He shook his head, looking hurt, and she felt that familiar well of shame in her throat again. “Why did you lie to me?”

 

She sighed, feeling exhausted, the exertions of the day settling their full and considerable weight upon her now. “I can’t really explain,” she said sadly. “But please believe me when I say, Jon, that I want to tell you… just… not now.”

 

He leaned back in his seat, looking disappointedly at his coffee mug. “You don’t have to tell me everything all at once,” he said, finally turning his eyes back up to her. “I know… I know that you can’t. I get it. But I can’t do this if you are going to actively lie.” 

 

“Okay,” she agreed immediately. “You’re right. I’m being a twit. If I can’t tell you something, I will just say it. No more lies.” 

 

He smiled at her, relieved, maybe a bit surprised that it was that easy. “No more lies.” 

 

She smiled back, melting, just a little. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve it.” 

 

He shook his head. “I didn’t think I deserved a girl like you even giving me a second glance, so I guess it all works out.”

 

She barked a disbelieving laugh at that. “You mean to tell me you don’t have every woman in Lewis and Clarke County falling over themselves?” 

 

He shook his head, blushing, scratched his chin, but said nothing. 

 

“Tell me,” she ventured, leaning forward on the table, glad to have him back. “What in god’s name were you thinking when you decided to take me out to flag bad fences?”

 

He snorted, his blush growing deeper. “Thought it’d be fun.”

 

“Oh it, was,” she said, “but that’s kind of… a risky move.” 

 

He looked at her as if she had just said something exceedingly foolish. “Not so sure about that.” 

 

She blinked at him, confused, spreading her hands in question. 

 

“People overthink shit like dates,” he continued. “And I just kind of… knew you’d like it.” He scratched the back of his head, peering at her from under his lashes. “Don’t know. You’re… well, you’re different, I guess.” He laughed, taking a nervous sip of his coffee. “I guess that sounds kind of insulting, but it’s not meant to.”

 

She didn’t know quite how to take that. She felt lost and flattered at the same time, her heart kicking up within her chest to a frantic level. 

 

Thankfully, their food arrived and they were distracted for the moment, both properly famished.

 

+++ 

 

They ended up closing the place down. 

 

Hot Pie shooed them out, plying them with an impossibly heavy box of pie on their way through the door. 

 

They stood in the empty parking lot, leaning against the fenders of their cars, passing a cigarette from hand to hand-- and then another, both unwilling to break the spell, to go back to their lonely beds and try to convince themselves that it was all for the better. 

 

She learned that Jon was a collector, of sorts. He owned the entire catalogue of several directors-- some she knew of, and others whose names she couldn’t even begin to pronounce. He had a soft spot for cheesy Westerns. He also held a deep and abiding passion for beer, much to her chagrin. 

 

She admitted to her shameful infatuation with fantasy and sci fi and told him about her predilection for fashion and “finer things”. 

 

“Came to the wrong place for that then,” Jon said within a laugh as he flipped open his cigarette case, only to find that it was empty. He cursed under his breath as he tucked it back into his coat. 

 

The smile slid from Dany’s face as she realized that they could stave it off no longer. 

 

She felt like a teenager again-- that same heady thrill of anxiety and excitement one felt as a date drew to a close, both parties expectant and needy but too dumb to know how to make the next move. 

 

He pushed himself off the fender of his truck, stepping closer to her slowly, crowding her a bit, closer than he had dared since he had needed, to show her the proper way to hold the gun. “I’d like to kiss you now,” he said, voice as rough as a husk of corn, his eyes dark and lighted all at once.

 

She looked up at him and he was so close… so fucking close she could count his lashes, could feel the puff of his breath on her chin and she was simply caught up, swallowed by his gravity. She tipped herself forward, and pressed her hungry mouth to his own. 

 

They ventured, slow and unsure, into the waters, both terribly out of practice. Teeth clicked together, and they laughed through their ensnared lips and she wrapped her arms around his neck. 

 

Emboldened, he stepped her closer to the car, her back straightening over the curve of the glass. She fed him a single, tiny moan as his tongue flicked over her lips and she opened up for him with a strangled breath. 

 

His palm was warm over her scalp and jaw as it roamed, thirsty and questing for new skin to taste. His body was flush with her own and though she was trapped, fully vulnerable, she felt oddly alive, oddly powerful. His mouth, so long admired, explored her own so thoroughly she felt invaded. 

 

Finally, he tore himself from her, tilting his hips away, begging for mercy-- she had begun rutting against him, helpless and enraptured.

 

His lips were kiss-bruised and beautiful, his breath heaving, puffing in white clouds before him. His fingers wrapped around the nape of her neck, circling over the vertebra there, and he leaned forward, pressing their brows together. “Good night, Dany,” he said, his voice impossibly wrecked. 

 

She slammed her eyes shut, her heart fluttering like a moth. “Good night.”

 

+++ 

 

_ So the words won't come _

_ And the hand won't touch _

_ And a midnight sun doesn't look like much _

_ As an iris contracts, facing the day _

_ I can tell you've cracked _

_ Like a china plate _

 

_ “Crack Up”  _ Fleet Foxes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely support from all my lovely readers. It truly means the world. <3
> 
> Thank you to the Tarts for their unwavering patience for my fretting and neuroticisms. 
> 
> And THANK YOU SO MUCH to [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal) for giving this a much needed once over and generally being a perfect person. <3
> 
> (And sorry for the tease)


	6. SPRING, III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had spoken very little of what… well, what the situation would be like after he got snatched up by the range. He had told her that he would try to call her, to watch out for a strange number on her phone, as his cell would be useless, but provided no other details. She decided that they were both hopeless about talking about difficult things, and made a resolution to fix that, because this limbo bullshit was _killing_ her.

 

Dany was going mad, she was sure of it. 

 

Winter was slowly loosening its icy grip on the town of its namesake. The hills were decorated by riots of colors. Everything with wings was bustling-- dragonflies, butterflies and other, less beautiful assortments of insects started filling the air. Bluebirds and swallows flitted and warbled through the trees, all neon green with infant leaves and bursting buds.

 

And it had been almost three weeks since she had seen Jon. 

 

She had received the text at about four in morning, just hours after she had pulled Olenna’s Datsun into the cramped carport and rushed up to her room after their… ‘date’. After the kiss had lit a quick-burning fuse that burned right to the core of her. 

 

_ Glad I got to see you when I did-- see you on the other side, cowgirl. _

 

She had to close her eyes, feeling outraged that tears should be burning in her eyes, and had slept fitfully for the duration of the evening. 

 

They had spoken very little of what… well, what the  _ situation _ would be like after he got snatched up by the range. He had told her that he would try to call her, to watch out for a strange number on her phone, as his cell would be useless, but provided no other details. She decided that they were both hopeless about talking about difficult things, and made a resolution to fix that, because this limbo bullshit was  _ killing  _ her.

 

“He didn’t mention anything?” Missy asked her while she raked manure over a freshly cleaned bed. “Like… maybe when he’d be able to get away or his phone situation…?”

 

Dany shook her head, whacking the stubborn stand of dead dandelion with her spade with more force than she had intended. 

 

Missy saw right through her, looking over at her sadly. “I’m sorry, Dany. I know you had a good time. That you like him.”

 

Dany huffed out a frustrated breath. “It’ll be fine,” she said resolutely, glancing over at her friend. “What’s that stupid thing they say? ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder’?” she asked dryly, plucking the dandelion from the cold earth and tossing it over her shoulder. 

 

Missy snorted. “Seems to be working well enough on you.”

 

It was all Dany could to do to keep her phone close, to look up with barely disguised hope whenever a patron walked up to her ticket booth, to sketch portraits of his horse, of the hills with their black frills of trees, the frozen brooke with its juniper bush and abandoned beaver dam. 

 

+++ 

 

She nearly had a heart attack when her phone rang during Thursday night dinner. 

 

She ignored the grumblings of Olenna ( _ House Rule Seven: No phones at the dinner table _ ) and scurried out of the dining room with her heart in her throat, the number flashing on her screen unfamiliar. “Hello?”

 

“Glad to see you didn’t change your number.”

 

She laughed, leaning her head against the wall, the sound of his voice much too delightful. “You caught me, old man.”

 

There was a small pause and she heard the crinkle of a long, slow breath in her ear. “Fuck” was all he said, but she understood perfectly. 

 

“I miss you too,” she replied.

 

She heard him give a pleased chuff, before clearing his throat. “Haven’t had anymore run-ins, have you?” 

 

She bit her lip, a small battle rising within her. Before he left her that night he had asked her about the car again and she had tried to assuage his worries by pulling out the small can of mace in her purse-- nestled in the outer pocket, within easy reach. He had looked unconvinced, but had opened her car door for her without another word. 

 

She had promised him no more lies... but she did not want to worry him unnecessarily, as busy as he was. 

 

Her brief silence gave her away before she could decide what to do. “Damnit, Dany.” 

 

“I’m just being paranoid,” she said quickly, slightly panicked by the anger in his voice. “It’s nothing. I just… thought I might’ve seen the same car parked outside the feed store going into work earlier today.” 

 

“That’s not nothing,” he said darkly. 

 

“I can handle myself, Jon,” she reassured, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. 

 

“Doesn’t mean I don’t worry.” He was silent for a time and she imagined him with a hand on his hip, a thoughtful crease on in his brow. “Not to mention, I feel useless trapped up here.” 

 

She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a bit shy, a bit flattered. “You’re bringing little baby cows safely into the world, Jon. You’re not useless. Don’t worry about me.”

 

He fell very quiet at that, and the silence thickened, roughened. He cleared his throat after a moment.

 

“There aren’t any nearsighted cowboys I need to worry about, are there?” he asked lightly, abruptly changing the subject.

 

“Only one,” she replied, “but I’m convinced he’s at least a hundred and eleven.” 

 

She heard him groan. “Old man Frey?” 

 

“How’d you know?” 

 

“He emerges from his weird castle at the edge of town when spring rolls in like some kind of hibernating, perverted gopher. Terrorizes the local women.”

 

“Do gophers hibernate?”

 

“Is that really important here?”

 

“I think it’s kind of important,” she pointed out. “Otherwise, your metaphor just falls apart.”

 

He laughed so heartily she felt herself blush. “Were you an English major, too?” 

 

“No,” she said lightly. “Just a lover of fine literature.”

 

A small pause. “Like  _ Harry Potter _ ?”

 

“You dare say a bad word about  _ Harry Potter  _ and I’ll have your head, Jon Snow.”

 

He laughed again and then cursed under his breath.

 

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.

 

“Nothing,” he replied quickly. “Just that  _ Sansa  _ is probably going to be the one to have my head. I’m on SAT phone and it’s… well, it’s not cheap.”

 

“Oh no,” she said disappointedly. “Here I am babbling away about gophers and  _ Harry Potter _ and I haven’t asked how you and your cows are doing.”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” he returned warmly. “It’s… it’s nice not to have to talk about cows and calves and the like for a bit. It’s all I’ve known for weeks now.”

 

She smiled, shifting on her slippered feet. 

 

“What’s Olenna having for dinner tonight?” he asked.

 

“Elk.”

 

He groaned. “So jealous.” 

 

“Never had it before. It’s  _ delicious _ ,” she said earnestly. She could hear the quiet sounds of chewing in her ear. “What are  _ you _ having for dinner?”

 

“Fucking jerky. Again.” 

 

She hummed in disapproval. “Is that all you’ve been eating?”

 

“Yeah,” he replied thickly, mouth clearly full of food. “Sometimes I get to inhale a cup of oatmeal. Otherwise it’s coffee and jerky.” 

 

“Sounds awful.” 

 

“It’s not all  _ that _ bad,” he responded airily. “Heard that it’s gonna be all the rage in 2018. A new crash diet, coming to a blog near you.”

 

She snorted. “Do you even know what a blog is?”

 

He scoffed, scandalized. “I’ll have you know that I have a computer with  _ broadband _ and I regularly surf movie blogs.”

 

“Did you just use the word ‘surf’?”

 

He chuckled. “Yeah, why? Is that not cool anymore?” 

 

She shook her head. “No, no it is  _ not _ . I think that’s what John McCain says when he tries to talk to young people about technology. And I’m pretty sure he’s a Civil War veteran.” 

 

He dissolved into such a fit of laughter that she was sure that she had lost him for a moment. He returned after a while, gathering himself. “What’s the preferred nomenclature these days?” he asked breathlessly.

 

“I think that would be ‘browsing’.”

 

He huffed. “Sounds boring.”

 

“You asked.” 

 

“Well, to get to the point of this six-minute call that was  _ supposed  _ to be one minute,” he said within a sigh. “I  _ might _ be able to slip out of here for a solid six hours in a few days.”

 

She felt such a thrill through her she had to place her other foot back down flat on the floor, where it had been leaned against the wall (Olenna would have cursed her sideways, if she knew). “Oh, yeah?” she asked, trying to sound casual. 

 

“Yeah,” he returned. “You’re off Sundays, right?” 

 

She bit her lip, trying to quell the bubble of excitement that lifted within her. “Yes.”

 

+++ 

 

She crossed her legs as she sat in Tyrion’s little living room, admiring the handsome stone walls and the floors so old they were almost black. The furnishings were obviously custom and pricey, all sleek angles and modern asceticism within the old architecture of the circa 1880s carriage house. 

 

“White or red?” Tyrion called from the kitchen. 

 

“Red, please,” Dany answered, pulling off her scarf. 

 

Tyrion came walking back from the kitchen with a dusty bottle under his arm and two large wine glasses dangling from his fingers. “Garnache,” he said as he placed the bottle down. “Spanish. 2010.” 

 

“Damn, Tyrion,” Dany said with a low whistle. “You don’t have to bring this out on my account.”

 

Tyrion shook his head, waving a hand at her. “It’s the least I could do.”

 

Dany was fairly perplexed by this, as she had never really done anything for Tyrion except sit in the ticket booth of his theatre, bored out of her mind most of the time, and eat way too much of his concessions. “Well, thanks,” she said as he handed her a glass.

 

He settled into one of the weird, blocky chairs across from her and leaned forward with his glass held out. “To good friends, and bad decisions,” he said with a small smile. 

 

She laughed. Tyrion had seemingly innumerable witty and slightly inappropriate toasts up his sleeve. She often wondered how many of them he had borrowed from Olenna. “Here, here,” she said as they clinked glasses and drank. “Oo,” she sighed, “that is wonderful, Tyrion.”

 

Tyrion shrugged. “If I am to drink myself into an early grave, it might as well be with the good stuff.”

 

“Sounds reasonable.” 

 

Tyrion took another sip, smacking his lips and looking at his glass approvingly, before placing it back down on the coffee table. “So,” he began, folding his hands. “I’ve heard that you’ve been having some trouble with a car?”

 

She froze, blinking at him rather dumbly. “How’d you know that?”

 

Tyrion sniffed, shifting further into his plush chair. “I have my… ways,” he replied simply.

 

“Well that’s properly menacing,” Dany muttered, ire rising. She placed her wine down on the table, her previous easiness fleeing. 

 

“You really don’t know who I am do you?” Tyrion asked with no small amount of disbelief. 

 

“I know that you're my boss,” she replied coldly. “And you seemingly have endless money.” She tapped a worried finger on the arm of the couch. “But I suppose I should have done more research.”

 

Tyrion shrugged. “I’m really not much of a mystery. A simple internet query would have revealed anything you wanted to know.” He took a gulp of wine, smacking his lips again before sighing. “And neither are you, Daenerys Targaryen.”

 

She felt her blood freeze in her veins, her breath faltering. The fucking jig was up now. She was found out. She’d have to leave—

 

“Don’t look at me like that, love, it makes me feel bad,” Tyrion said with a frown. “It’s simply my job to know these things.”

 

She stood, gathering her scarf and coat, pulse pounding in her tongue, desperate to get away.

 

“No, no, my dear,” Tyrion pleaded, hand held out in an arresting gesture. He looked at her with such a sad, understanding expression she halted, her nerves quieting. “You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

 

She hesitated, but slowly sank back down on the couch, sitting tense and uneasy at the edge of the cushions. 

 

Tyrion settled further into his chair, looking reassured. “I don’t only live at Tyrell house to while away my hours fixing up an old movie theatre and terrorize the locals,” Tyrion explained with a wave of his hand. “Olenna trusts me. We’ve been friends for years. Long before I ever moved in here.” He pointed a determined finger at her, face solemn and serious. “And in that trust, Olenna has tasked me with a certain… delicate duty of keeping tabs on her residents. Making sure they are protected.”

 

Dany prickled. “Sounds rather like an invasion of privacy.”

 

Tyrion shook his head, exasperated, as he leaned forward. “You must understand, Daenerys, that most everyone who has taken up residence in this house has some sort of dark, troubled past. The type of past that often comes hunting for them.” Tyrion watched her with careful, thoughtful eyes as he sipped his wine. “So, you see why Olenna would be interested in assuring her tenants’ safety.”

 

Dany shifted, tossing her coat and scarf to the side in defeat, now hopelessly curious. She picked up her abandoned wine glass and took a healthy pull. “So,” she began curtly. “You know who I am. What of it?”

 

Tyrion peered at her skeptically. “My last name is Lannister. Ring any bells?”

 

Dany looked at him blankly and he sighed. 

 

“Your father and my father were begrudging business partners for a time, before it all went to shit.”

 

She sat, stunned and bewildered, knuckles white over her knee. Her father barely paid her any attention while he had been living, let alone speak her about the family’s many business ventures. Viserys, on the other hand, was always following their father in and out of meetings and the like once he was older. By the time their father died, Viserys came to find that he had inherited nothing but cooked books and massive amounts of debt-- and had taken his ample frustration out on her. 

 

“We met, briefly,” Tyrion continued, “You were no more than a toddler.”

 

“You knew my father?” Dany asked, astonished.

 

Tyrion nodded, placing his glass down on the arm of his chair. “I don't remember him well, to be honest. But, I remember you. I recognized you almost immediately.” 

 

Dany looked to her knuckles, vainly attempting to quell her feeling of invasion, of being found out. “Who have you told?”

 

“Only Olenna knows,” he replied, trying to sound reassuring. “And a trusted employee. The best private investigator there is.” 

 

“A PI?” she asked with an astonished laugh. “What the fuck is this? Some crummy soap opera?”

 

Tyrion shrugged, swirling his wine idly. “Perhaps, but he endeavors to keep you safe, at any rate.”

 

Dany shook her head, a small bubble of fury welling under her heart. “So you know everything, then? I am found out?”

 

“No,” Tyrion replied. “I do not know what, exactly you’re running from or why. But I can venture an educated guess that it has something to do with the mysterious death of a wealthy son of a sultan and the… billions?” he trailed off questioningly. Dany simply looked away. Tyrion nodded, continuing. “The perhaps _ billions _ of dollars he left to his young wife.”

 

Dany swallowed, bile building up at the back of her throat. “So…” she began slowly. “Why are you telling me this?” She looked at him and he gazed back, thoughtful and caring. “What do you want me to do?”

 

Tyrion took another long, savoring slug of his wine before placing the glass back down. “If I am to help you, I need you to help me.” He peered at her from under his brow, creased in concern. “I need you to tell me everything.”

 

+++

 

The only warning she had, come Sunday, was the sound of Jon’s noisy pickup pulling into the drive. 

 

“So, Tyrion finally had ‘The Talk’ with you, huh?” Missy said as she placed her tiles on the board. 

 

Dany scrunched her nose. “‘Rube’? Really?” 

 

Missy threw her hands up, innocent. “It’s a word.”

 

She shook her head, studying her tiles with some dismay. Six vowels. Great. “I’ll beat you at this game one of these days, I swear.” 

 

Missy sniffed, unconvinced. “You didn’t answer my question.” 

 

They were in Missy’s room, playing a rousing game of Scrabble on the colorful rug next to her little daybed. Posters of grim, hip, young punk rockers from all across the world stared down at them as The Kinks played from a radio on the dresser. Olenna often had to pound on Missy’s door to get her to ‘turn that god awful racket down’.

 

She sagged a bit, defeated. “Yes, Tyrion gave me The Talk, as you call it.” She looked at her friend under her brow, a bit accusatory. “Would’ve appreciated a warning.”

 

Missy looked back at her, aggrieved. “I know, Dany. It’s just that we aren’t really supposed to talk about it. Olenna doesn’t want it come out, doesn’t want to tip off anyone that Tyrion is actually--”

 

“I know, I know,” Dany sighed. “Can’t say I blame her, or Tyrion.” She leaned forward, placing her one ‘T’ next to a free ‘A’. “Just… caught me off guard, is all. Not used to people knowing who I am.”

 

Missy nodded, opening her mouth to respond when the unmistakable sound of crunching gravel filtered through the cracked window. 

 

Dany nearly lunged forward, pulling the window in fully open, greatful that Missy’s room faced the front yard. They both leaned out of the window, hopelessly curious. Visitors were a rare occurrence at the Tyrell House. 

 

“Come to see to an old woman, my dear?” Dany heard Olenna greet him as she shuffled out onto the front steps, wiping her soot-stained fingers on her apron. 

 

Jon laughed, embracing Olenna and shaking his head. “Don’t have much time, I’m afraid.” 

 

“Ah,” Olenna replied, looking knowingly up at where Dany and Missandei hung out the window . “I’m wise enough to know when I am unwanted.”

 

Jon followed the direction of Olenna’s gaze and smiled, waving at her. Dany flushed, a girlish excitement taking hold. “Hey there,” he called, “Haven’t eaten yet have you?”

 

Dany laughed and shook her head. “No, not yet.” 

 

“Nice to see you too, Jon,” Missy shouted, a good-natured smile on her lips. 

 

Jon looked over at her as if just realizing she was there. “Hey there, Missy,” he said with another wave. Olenna shook her head and lead Jon into the house with an impatient gesture. 

 

Dany leaned back into the room, biting her lip while Missy guffawed and shoved her back into her own room to change. 

 

+++ 

 

“Where are you taking me, old man?” she asked as she clambered into the cab and pulled the door closed behind her. 

 

Jon ignited the engine and smiled as he pulled out of the drive. “A nice place.” 

 

Dany looked glumly at her attire. A University of Kentucky hoodie, an old Radiohead tee shirt and a pair of paint-splattered jeans. “I wish you would have warned me,” she said a bit crossly. 

 

He shook his head, unworried. “It’s nice, but not in that way,” he replied mysteriously. She was skeptical, but noted that he wore nothing more than black tee under a ratty flannel and a pair of jeans. 

 

“I brought some music,” she said, pulling out three cracked and well-loved jewel cases out of her purse. All held a blank disc decorated with permanent marker. One was scrawled with the words ‘Big Sky’ in exaggerated, loopy letters. It was a carefully curated mix from high school. One of her favorites.

 

Jon glanced over at her skeptically. “Burned CDs?” he asked. “And you called me old-fashioned.”

 

She laughed as she leaned forward and pushed the ‘eject’ button on the aftermarket head unit. She grasped the disk it spit out between forefinger and thumb, appraising. “ _ Bjork? _ ” she asked, doubtful. 

 

She saw his ears redden. “‘Post’ is a good album,” he muttered, as he pulled onto the highway.

 

Dany shook her head, continually surprised by this man, and pushed her ‘Big Sky’ mix into the player. 

 

Much to her pleasure and horror, ‘Crazy’ by Patsy Cline started up. She blushed furiously, locked in a heady fight between pressing the ‘forward’ button and letting the song play out in its entirety-- just to see his reaction. 

 

He pulled off the highway and turned off the radio with a deft press of his fingers. “Best save that for later,” he said simply. 

 

His words, mundane on the surface, sent a bolt of want strait into the core of her-- so fast and so sudden she nearly grabbed the handle of the door to steady herself. She cleared her throat and leaned back in her seat, watching the countryside flicker past the window. 

 

They didn’t speak for some time. She found herself lost, suddenly, as they followed the course of a lonely county road, bordered by sloping steppe and sparse woodland. The further they drove, the wilder the countryside became, and the smaller and more overwhelmed she felt. Something almost fearful and fluttering started to well under her throat. It was exhilarating, how empty the world seemed, how alone she felt. 

 

When they passed a sign reading “Bitterroot National Forest” she turned to him, curious. “Where the hell are you taking me, Jon Snow?” 

 

He laughed quietly, turning off onto an ill-used side road. “You’ll see.” 

 

They were silent for another long moment, the shocks of the old truck creaking as they jostled to and fro on the bumpy track. “Why country?” he asked suddenly, looking over at her curiously. “Thought you were a city slicker.”

 

She laughed as she looked out the windscreen, horizon bobbing like she was standing on the deck of a ship. She was glad she wasn’t prone to motion sickness. “I’m not as cultured as you seem to think,” she replied with a grin. “I seem to remember telling you that I rode horses since I was a kid.”

 

He nodded, downshifting as the trail led them up a slope. The tires slipped a bit in some new slush. “Aye,” he said, “I remember. Still, though…” he trailed off, looking at her with warm, admiring eyes. “Just seems surprising is all.”

 

“Well that makes two of us,” Dany pointed out, pulling the Bjork CD she had safely stowed away in its case hidden in the glove compartment. “A cowboy who enjoys indie films and listens to Bjork.” 

 

He snorted. “Fair enough.” He paused. “But that doesn’t really answer the question.”

 

She sighed, a bit exasperated at his persistence. “My mother loved old country-- Pasty and Twitty and Cash and all that.” She looked to her hands, lost in painful and sweet memory all at once. “It’s all I have left of her, really.” 

 

She glanced at him in time to see him look over at her, dark eyes lighted with a familiar pain. Something more like  _ ‘been there’ _ rather than  _ ‘poor thing’ _ . He pulled his lower lip into his mouth and placed a careful, hesitant hand on her knee, silent for another prolonged moment. She placed both her palms over his rough knuckles, squeezing. 

 

“This is my father’s truck,” he finally offered, voice rough. “It’s all I have left of him, too.”

 

She looked at him, a bit shocked at his admission, studying the lines of his profile, girded by the rusty light of a sleepy sun. She blinked, chest tightening, looking down at his hand, warm and broad on her thigh.

 

A very queer, heady rush of something she had not felt in a very long time washed over her, warming her to the roots of her hair, fingers gone tingly. She was a bit dizzy, heart faltering, letting her head tip back onto the headrest as she breathed in the chilly mountain air gusting through the cracked window, bracing herself.

 

_ “Love is often like a cliff, my dear _ ,” her mother had once told her.  _ “When it happens, it’s quite like leaping from one and hoping the tide is high enough below.” _

 

“We’re here,” he announced, jostling her leg gently before lifting his hand from her knee to downshift. She blinked, having nearly drifted off and somewhat lost. She looked to her right, only to see sheer rock face, draped with dripping tendrils of ice. Then she looked to the left, and gasped. 

 

It was as if they were perched in midair. Soaring mountaintops etched out their mighty shoulders against a sky of roan and violet, shot with gold. A carpet of green fir and endless,  _ endless _ color rolled on for miles below them. 

 

“Holy…” she couldn’t really form words, sitting back in her seat in a stunned flop of limbs. Jon was pulling the truck into a little alcove carved out from the face of the mountain they had climbed, blocking the astounding view for now. 

 

He smiled at her, pleased, as he pulled on the parking brake. He turned to face her, arm slung over the steering wheel. “Hungry?”

 

Dany searched his face, still reeling. He seemed a bit thinner, dark circles hovering below the skin surrounding his eyes. She thought, fleetingly, that he should be resting, instead of galavanting with her in the woods. The implication of it… the sacrifice of his own wellbeing to see her--

 

She pushed it from her mind swiftly, yanking her seat belt off and leaning forward, brave and clumsy, catching his smile in her lips. 

 

He froze under her, unsure, but it only lasted a fraction of a moment before he was pulling her closer, mouth parting to feed her a surprised groan. 

 

She pulled away from him, suddenly acutely aware of the gear shift digging into her hip, that the only two options of escape left to her were retreating to the safety of her own seat, or climbing into his lap. She hovered, inches from his face, wanting him--  _ needing _ him-- to make the decision for her. 

 

There was something questioning in his eyes, a bright light of pleading as he searched her face. His chest heaved under her hand, and she leaned just a fraction closer, drawn into him like a fish to a lure. 

 

Whatever he had been questing for, he seemed to find it, and he lunged forward, recapturing her lips while his palms pressed under her thighs, hefting her up and over the gear shift in a dizzying move as if she weighed nothing. She yelped against his mouth in shock, laughing as she squared her knees on either side of his hips. 

 

He craned his neck to get back to her, and she lowered her face a bit too eagerly, crashing her mouth upon his own. His fingers delved into her hair, effectively sending the elastic that held it in her little ponytail flying onto the dashboard. She raked her nails through his beard, savoring the feel of it, rough as brambles as it scraped her chin. His fingers drifted down, travelling the slope of her shoulders, her waist, before stalling on her hips, squeezing, thumbs digging into the top of her pelvis. 

 

She squirmed, the touch sparking something savage and potent within her. She moaned against his mouth, catching that beautiful bottom lip between her teeth. Emboldened, he did it again and she nearly collapsed, her face falling into the curve of his neck with a growl. He slid his hands over her ass, spreading his fingers wide and greedy, as if he could scoop all of it up for himself. 

 

He nipped at her exposed collar bone as she grappled with his flannel. The cab of the truck was already starting to steam and she pressed her nose to his temple to lap up a trail of sweat, the taste delicious, the scent overpowering. She could feel the fire licking at her core, consuming her like old newsprint, and she could beat it back no longer.

 

“Condom--” she managed to breathe out through her wrecked lungs. “Do you…?”

 

He heaved a moan of great annoyance, pressing his forehead to her sternum, fingers curling into her hips. “No,” he rasped. 

 

She fell against him, defeated and angry, biting into his shoulder as punishment, relishing the jump of muscle between her teeth. “We could… it’s okay,” she found herself almost whining, pressing her hips more fully to the length of heat beneath her. She felt sluttish, wild, not wholly herself. 

 

“Other things,” he said within a groan. “We can do.” 

 

She almost wanted to laugh, to shake her head and chide him for such foolish talk. Other things? They were not teenagers, pleased and sated with a handjob or a rough, clumsy fingering. 

 

But she quickly came to realize that is not exactly what he had in mind. 

 

He shifted beneath her, leaning forward to pull the door open, before getting distracted by her chest, diving in with a wet, hungry tongue. She fell back with a wanton sigh, giving him more access. Her shoulders landed on the steering wheel and the horn blared loudly. 

 

They both jumped, before they laughing and Jon continued his initial task of opening the door. He lowered her upon wobbly legs onto the soft ground, before following suit. He tore his flannel off fully, as she had only managed to get it off his shoulders, grabbed her by the hand, and walked her to the front of the truck. 

 

“Take off your jeans,” he told her, waving his hand to her lower half and spreading his flannel upon the hood of the car. 

 

She nearly fucking fainted, the command in his voice doing something ridiculous in her brain, firing strait into her cunt. Her eyelids fluttered and she swayed, but she managed to find herself, to steady her feet. 

 

“I think that’s your job.” She was honestly impressed with herself, able to string more than two words together without sounding like she had taken a blow to the head. 

 

His eyes flashed and she felt her mouth simply water at the expression on his face. He took one long stride towards her before he had her scooped up, broad palms almost able to line the length of her spine, his mouth sealing to her own with a thirsty snarl. 

 

She felt as pliable as a spill of wax, as soft as clay as his hands dipped under the waistband of her jeans, taking a hungry squeeze of her ass before flowing over her hips, knuckles dragging a rough line over the front of her. His thumbs flicked her fly open, pulling the zipper down and before she knew it, her jeans were pooled around her ankles. 

 

She felt that she should feel foolish, her All-Stars still on, making it impossible to wrest herself of her pants entirely, but she couldn’t bring herself to care much as he walked her back, fingers twitching and enticing at the top of her panties. The back of her thighs pressed against warm metal, and she groaned into his ear, his lobe trapped between the press of her tongue and her front teeth. 

 

She reached for his fly, desperate to feel him, to know the hot, hard flesh that pressed into her hip, but he smacked her hands away. She hissed in irritation, going for his thin tee instead, but again he thwarted her. Her ire rose, but was quickly forgotten as he lifted her onto the hood of the truck, bare ass seated on the soft fabric of his flannel. 

 

He yanked at her underwear, pulling them to her knees, coming in to kiss her again. She wanted nothing more than to twine her legs around him, but her ankles snagged on her jeans and she moaned in frustration. 

 

He answered her irritation by pushing her back, pressing her shoulders to the hood of the truck. The metal was still hot and the contrast between that and the cold of the gathering night air was delicious. She briefly wondered why he bothered with the flannel. 

 

He lifted her hobbled legs, ducking under and between them, dropping his knees to the bumper as he fisted his hands in either side of the flannel and pulled. She yelped in shock as she was dragged forward, but it fell into a weak wail as his mouth landed onto her hot cunt with a hungry lave of his tongue.

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” she gasped, slamming her eyes shut against the assault. “Holy…  _ fuck _ .”

 

Her head hit the hood with a hollow ‘thud’ as he pressed his tongue up and under her clit, leaving it there for an agonizing moment. He laughed against her, snaking a hand under her bra and squeezing.  _ God _ his hands were so fucking  _ rough _ … it was the sweetest thing she thought she’d ever felt. “Don’t put a dent in my truck now,” he rumbled into her swollen flesh, blowing a torturous stream of warm breath over her clit. 

 

“If you don’t shut up and get to work--” the rest of her angry protest was lost in an helpless moan as he abruptly returned to the task at hand.

 

He circled her clit, teasing, pressing her nipple between forefinger and thumb as his other hand hovered over her cunt. She squirmed in frustration, hands diving into his hair, urging him closer. He finally relented, pushing his mouth fully upon her, tongue delving into her cunt and then pulling upwards-- a long, slow drag right to her clit that made her cry out. 

 

He moaned, the sound vibrating into her very core. She rolled her hips, begging for more friction. He obliged, lapping at her fast and hard and she cursed again. 

 

“ _ Jon, fuck… _ ” she managed, her throat closing up fast, the liquid fire in her belly rising and rising, igniting every nerve. 

 

He pinched her nipple hard, brought his teeth down on her experimentally, and pushed two fingers into her, slick and sweet with arousal. 

 

She shuddered, voice tangled in her stuttering breath. She broke apart around him, rippling and convulsing, pleasure taking her away like the tide. 

 

He rode her out, giving her a few more sweet, almost painful sweeps before he leaned back from her. He looked at her, eyes black with desire, lips kiss-bruised and beautiful. He smiled at her and wiped his beard with his hand. She let out a tiny moan at the sight and let her eyes fall away from him, looking to the stars winking into life above her. 

 

“Alright?” he asked, all mumbly and mussed with want as he leaned over her. 

 

“Yeah,” she breathed, still in a state of shock. “Yeah, I think I’ll be okay.”

 

He laughed and ducked his head before collapsing upon her, chin pressed into her breastbone, no strength left to him. 

 

She scraped her nails over his scalp and he groaned in pleasure. “What about you?”

 

“Be alright,” he said, voice muffled by her breast. He turned his face up to look up at her apologetically. “Pay back for being an unprepared moron.”

 

She laughed, joy brimming over, threatening to swamp her. She looked back up to the deepening sky. “Apology accepted, old man.”

 

+++ 

 

 __"But there is another  
Who is a little older  
When I broke my bone  
He carried me up from the riverside  
  
To spend my life  
In spitting-distance  
Of the love that I have known  
I must stay here, in an endless eventide"

_ \--"In California" _  Joanna Newsom

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was a bit late. I caught up with myself, so I post-poned this until I could get more of chapter seven out of my head. 
> 
> It's my birthday tomorrow. You know what is the greatest gift an author can get? GUESS. (The answer is comments.)
> 
> Thank you to all the lovely Tarts for their enduring patience and love (and shameless egging-on, in some cases). Thank you to all my readers and all the support that drives me to do what I do!
> 
> And, of course, thanks so much to the splendid [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal) for looking this over for me, and keeping me honest. :D
> 
> (come say hi @freshhexes on tumblr!)


	7. SPRING, IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She took the bottle he held out to her, grinning at his uncertain face. It was a Tempranillo, pretty standard fare, but probably the best he could do considering the locale. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. “You’re going to drink it with me?” 
> 
> “Ah… yeah,” he said slowly, looking around as if he had just misplaced his keys. “But I’m just now realizing that I forgot cups.”
> 
> She quirked an eyebrow. “Quite unprepared, aren’t you?” she asked teasingly.

****

 

**CHAPTER SEVEN -- SPRING, IV**

 

“Got a bit distracted,” Jon said to her with a rueful smile as he pulled down the tailgate of his truck. “Can’t really see much now.”

 

Dany watched as he leapt into the bed and yanked a blanket from a bag nestled in the back corner, then shook it out, spreading it flat. Her ‘Big Sky’ mix filtered through the open rear window, the crooning of Dolly Parton and Hank Williams mixed pleasantly with the soft chirrup of crickets.

 

She looked over her shoulder, the colors of the flowers now shaded with blue, limned in milky moonlight. The mountains were huge and black, blotting out the stars. She craned her head upwards as he prepped and fretted within the bed of the truck.

 

“I don’t know about that,” she replied with a smile, dropping her chin to look at him. “The stars are quite beautiful.”

 

He fell still, squatting by a backpack with a smile. “Aye,” he said softly, then returned to his task. “I suppose there is that.”

 

She blushed and pulled the jacket he had given her further up her shoulders. The chill was starting to settle. “Aren’t you cold?”

 

He still only wore his flannel, now dusty and marked with a wet spot at the small of his back that made her grin like a teenager every time she saw it. “I’m more used to the cold than you.”

 

She nodded, supposing he was right. He lit up a camp lantern and the bed of the truck was bathed in a pallid glow. He leaned forward and beckoned her with an outstretched hand.

 

She took it and he helped her crawl up the tailgate. “It’s a bit filthy, sorry about that,” he apologized as he settled next to her with a little red cooler under his arm.

 

He pulled out a bag with two slightly squished sandwiches, a Tupperware of strawberries, a paper bag she suspected was jerky, a Styrofoam box that looked like it came from Hot Pie’s… and a bottle of wine. “So, I don’t know shit about wine, but I think you said something about liking Spanish wines?”

 

She took the bottle he held out to her, grinning at his uncertain face. It was a Tempranillo, pretty standard fare, but probably the best he could do considering the locale. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. “You’re going to drink it with me?”

 

“Ah… yeah,” he said slowly, looking around as if he had just misplaced his keys. “But I’m just now realizing that I forgot cups.”

 

She quirked an eyebrow. “Quite unprepared, aren’t you?” she asked teasingly.

 

He tensed, looking at her like a rabbit who had just spotted the coyote hidden in the brush. She felt a pang of shame as he glanced away. She had only been joking. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he muttered. He let out a frustrated breath. “Haven’t really… done this,” he said, waving between himself and her, not quite meeting her eyes. “It’s been… awhile.”

 

Her heart sank as she thought of the still-mysterious woman who lived in his past. She bit her lip, grappling with all she knew, and all she did not. She recalled Olenna’s party, of the flash of hurt and pain in Jon’s eyes as Bronn had stumbled headlong into dark memories. “I… didn’t mean it like that, Jon,” she managed. She shifted closer to him and nudged him with her shoulder. “I haven’t done this in a while, either.”

 

He looked at her with a smirk, obviously assuming it was a joke. “You’re kidding.”

 

She laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. “I’m not.”

 

His smile broadened and he slid a palm onto her knee. “I can’t say I believe that, but at least we’ll be terrible at this together.”

 

She laughed loudly at that, her heart overfull. She leaned forward and pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her silly grin. He rumbled with pleased laughter under her.

 

“We can improvise,” she said as she lifted the bottle and waggled it. “This vintage is much preferable straight out of the bottle, anyway.”

 

He grinned and pulled out a multi tool from his jeans pocket as he took the bottle from her. _Of course he would have one of those_.

 

“Not sure how this will pair with roast beef sandwiches,” he said as he cut through the foil and started the process of twisting in the too-small corkscrew into the cork. “But the lady at the store said red wine is nice with beef.”

 

She beamed, endeared, imagining him puzzling over bottle after bottle, fetching a clerk to help him navigate his ignorance of wine. “I think it will do just fine, old man.”

 

His cheeks colored as he finally pulled the cork free with a loud ‘pop’. He offered it to her and she took a swig. “Here’s to you and that clever tongue of yours,” she said boldly as she handed it over.

 

He blushed spectacularly. “Not sure how I feel about drinking to _that_.”

 

She barked a laugh as he took the bottle from her. “Just do it, Jon Snow. You deserve it.”

 

He hummed, playfully unamused and took a pull. “Dany,” he said through a wince, clearly not enjoying the wine in the least bit. He handed the bottle back over. “I just realized that I don’t even know your last name. How the fuck did that happen?”

 

She froze at this, unprepared, foolishly. Of course he’d want to know her full name… he’d just brought her to dizzying orgasm not ten minutes before, after all.

 

For the past two and a half years, she had been writing down “Storm” as her last name on lease agreements and all those paper-trail-like things she avoided like the plague. She realized that ‘Dany Storm’ sounded like a fucking _X-Men_ character, but it was as good as she could come up with. As a child, all fire and stubbornness, her mother had referred to her as ‘her little storm’. The name sort of stuck.

 

She could lie, could give him the simple, safe answer that wouldn’t set her teeth on edge, but that was not what she was here for. Not what _he_ was here for.

 

“Targaryen,” she answered, taking a large gulp of wine for good measure.

 

No hint of recognition passed over his face, as she had passively assumed. Why would a cowboy in Montana know anything of an elite race horsing family from the east?

 

But he _did_ look rather confused. “Well that’s… a name.”

 

She snorted. “It’s Welsh. I think.”

 

“Dany Targaryen,” he said, as if testing how the syllables felt in his mouth. He opened the zip lock bag containing the sandwiches and passed her one, neatly wrapped in wax paper.

 

She took it and looked down at her lap as she unwrapped it. It was obviously homemade and this observation only served to endear her further. She took a deep breath. “It’s actually Daenerys.”

 

He blinked at her, stunned. “Holy shit,” he said quietly. “Daenerys Targaryen… sounds like a princess or something.”

 

She smiled, taking a large tear out of her sandwich, realizing that she was properly hungry. “‘Dany’ works just fine,” she said thickly.

 

He glanced at her, maybe a bit skeptical, a bit overwhelmed by her exotic, entirely fanciful name and what that might mean, exactly. She was relieved when he didn’t ask about it further.

 

“So,” she began after a somewhat awkward silence. “I don’t believe we ever had that favorite movie conversation.”

 

He nodded as he placed his sandwich back down on the wax paper. He pawed through the cooler, pulling out a stack of paper napkins tucked into a zip lock bag. He took one for himself and passed them over to her. She took one gratefully.

 

“I believe you’ve already heard me blabber on about that,” he said after he wiped his mouth… which was, for some reason, very fucking distracting.

 

She shook her head, laughing softly as she pulled a bit of beef out from the bread and nibbled at it. “You didn’t even answer the question,” she pointed out. “You were too busy telling me about the importance of genre and the moments certain movies can define… or something.”

 

He snorted as he took another swig of wine. “I’m honestly impressed you were paying that much attention.” He passed the bottle back over to her. “Sorry about that, by the way.”

 

She laughed as she took a sip. “Don’t be,” she reassured him. “It was cute.”

 

“So what is it?” he asked, blushing. “What is Daenerys Targaryen’s favorite movie?”

 

“‘The Princess Bride’,” she responded without hesitation. “That might be disappointing, but…”

 

He shook his head, holding out an arresting hand as he finished his bite of sandwich. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

 

She bit her lip, thoroughly and hopelessly charmed, though she tried her best to seem chagrined. “Asshole,” she muttered as she returned to her meal.

 

He almost choked, laughing through a mouthful of food. He swallowed. “Did you _want_ me to tease you about that?” he asked, astonished. “‘The Princess Bride’ is basically a perfect film.”

 

She smirked, taking another swig of wine. It swirled pleasantly in her belly, already getting her a bit tipsy. She wanted to tell him that he was too perfect, that she felt herself tumbling, tumbling, falling headlong into the surf below. She wanted to kiss him fiercely, until he realized just how good he was, how amazing he had proven to be to her... but all those thoughts scrambled up in her brain, triggering a heady mix of desire and abject fear that she sought to banish with more wine.

 

She leaned her shoulders back on the side of the bed of the truck, needing some sort of grounding wire, a solid place to land.

 

Jon pushed himself next to her, knocking her in the shoulder. “So?” he asked though a mouthful of sandwich. “Why is ‘The Princess Bride’ your favorite movie?”

 

She shrugged. “It kind of feels like a… I don’t know… a safe haven for me?” She shook her head as she brought the bottle to her lips. “It’s like the characters are my friends. I can’t ever be in a bad mood after I watch that movie.”

 

Jon looked away, shaking his head in vague disbelief as he grinned. “What?” she asked. “What’s that face for?”

 

He shook his head again, laughing. “Nothing… it’s just that… you perfectly summed up everything I was trying to say that night in about a quarter of the time.”

 

She huffed. “More like a _tenth_ of the time.”

 

He scrunched his face at that, offended. “I can’t have prattled on _that_ long.”

 

She raised her eyebrows at that, considering. “It is quite possible I entered into a fugue state and escaped into another dimension. Time might have gotten fuzzy.”

 

He snorted loudly, holding his food in his mouth with a fist. He finally swallowed it down and shook his head. “Can you blame me?” he asked, feigning outrage. “I was trying to impress a pretty girl.”

 

She smiled sweetly at him, deciding he’d taken enough torture for the evening. “And impress you did, old man.”

 

He grinned back at her, before reaching forward for the Styrofoam box laying near his feet and offered it to her. “Blueberry pie,” he supplied. “Heard tell it was your favorite.”

 

She took the little box with a smile. “Thanks.”

 

He turned back to the cooler and there was a great deal of racket as he rifled through it and Dany sniffed the pie happily, her mouth watering. His shoulders fell with some dismay. “I didn’t pack fucking forks.”

 

She fell into such hopeless laughter she was unsure if she’d ever recover, tears pricking her eyes as she nearly fell sideways into the bed of the truck. “I’m so glad my absolute incompetence in arranging a proper picnic is so amusing.”

 

She looked at him through her helpless giggling, hand over her mouth. Though his words were serious, his face was alight with a stupid, wide smile that simply transformed him. She leaned forward and pressed a happy kiss to his lips. “You really are terrible at this, Jon Snow.”

 

He hummed, pleased, returning her kiss before leaning away. “I _do_ have a trusty spork, though.”

 

She spread her arms, pie clutched triumphantly in one hand. “Well, why didn’t you say so, old man?” she cried. “A spork is arguably a better instrument for pie eating than a fork.”

 

Jon shrugged coolly, playing it off, as he leaned forward and dragged a heavy leather rucksack toward him. “Yeah, I knew that. Of course.”

 

Spork divulged, they tucked into the delicious pie, silent and utterly content with the world for a time.

 

“So,” she asked, pointing with the spork to his right eye. “I’ve been curious since I met you… how the hell did you get that scar?”

 

He choked a bit on his pie, blushing furiously. “Do I have to answer that?”

 

She peered at him with squinted eyes. “Depends,” she answered skeptically. “Is the answer tragic or embarrassing?”

 

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes, but unable to hide his smirk. “What if I said it was tragic?”

 

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

 

He shook his head with a snort, exasperated. “I hit a branch.”

 

Dany let the spork fall between her fingers, quirking her eyebrows at him. “You… hit a branch?”

 

He shifted, uncomfortable. “I was being stupid. Was racing Robb. Galloped right into a tree branch. Lucky I didn’t lose the fucking eye.”

 

She suppressed a chuckle. “Pretty competitive, aren’t you?”

 

He shrugged, holding the wine bottle to the lantern to gauge its fullness. He took a swig and passed it to her. “No, not really. Just fucking dumb.”

 

She could resist no longer, bursting out with laugher. “Well, at least you got a handsome scar out of your shame.”

 

He laughed quietly, looking down to his lap. Something in his face shifted and she felt herself tense. “Jon?”

 

He glanced up at her, lines around his eyes deepening, his mouth twitching. “I, uh… I have more scars… that you should probably know about. If this… if this goes any further.”

 

She felt her chest clench at that, something dark and cold coiling within her, unable to possibly fathom what in the hell he could possibly mean by that.

 

He straightened his back, pulling his flannel off his shoulders before yanking his black tee over his head in one swift motion.

 

She had girlishly imagined seeing him shirtless many a time, in idle, unrealistic fantasies that only really existed in cheesy calendars and ‘torn bodice’ romance novel covers.

 

But this was not what she had been expecting, not even a little bit.

 

She gasped, a hand going to her mouth. The snowy-white planes of his chest were broken and marred by ugly red scars, the width of two of her fingers, some the length of her hand.

 

“I told you once that I’d been gored,” he said slowly, his face downturned, brow furrowed in anguish. “Had to airlift me to the hospital… everyone thought I was a dead man.”

 

Something queer lurched in her chest and she felt her breath catch. She was immovable, frozen and breathless under the pale wash of the moon.

 

He sat before her, somber and sad and beautiful, glowing like a ghost, still as a stone. Finally, he leaned over, grabbing up his discarded shirt.

 

She held out a hand, movements not really her own, fingers brushing over his clavicle. “Jon,” she whispered. She caught his eyes, though he tried his best to avoid her own. “Thank you… for… showing me.”

 

He heaved a great breath, eyes black and blazing. She felt his pulse kick up under her fingers. “I didn’t want for it to… take you by surprise when...” he trailed off, swallowing hard, his cheeks coloring to a hue as red as beets.

 

She smiled ruefully at him, the wine making her bold, his presence making her foolish and giddy. “When we get to properly fuck?”

 

He snorted, pulling his tee back on. “Something like that.”

 

She leaned away, watching as he pulled his flannel back on. “I’m glad,” she blurted, her heart suddenly hammering in her throat. “I’m glad that you have the scars. Instead of… the other way around,” she finished quickly, awkward.

 

He slowed his movements, straightening out his collar. Something strange and pained passed over his face. His eyes finally met hers and a nameless, thoughtless resonance passed between them. After what seemed like an age, the corner of his mouth finally ticked up. “Me too,” he said softly.

 

She managed a watery smile, and he set about cleaning up their mess without another word.

 

He tucked away the untouched jerky and strawberries into the cooler, tossing the sandwich bag and the empty styrofoam box into a grocery bag, to be thrown out later. They leaned back against the sidewall of the bed, her head tucked into the crook of his arm, his thumb roaming aimlessly over the cap of her shoulder as they gazed up at the sky.

 

It was properly dark now, the lantern turned down to nothing more than a faint glow. As their eyes adjusted, more stars lit up like watch fires within the black vault, the powdery arm of the Milky Way winking itself into life above them like some great, slumbering beast.

 

“I spent most of my summers in Kentucky,” she said without prompting, feeling more at home, more _safe_ than she had perhaps ever felt since those same wild days on the farm. “In bluegrass country. The stars there were beautiful.” She shifted, burrowing herself further into his embrace, throwing a leg over both his own, out-stretched and crossed at the ankle.

 

“Not so much of a city slicker, then,” he pointed out.

 

She shook her head. “No… I mean. I spent most of the falls and winters in New York, so there’s that.” He shifted as he pulled out his cigarette case from his jeans pocket, one handed. He lit one up and passed it over. She took it and blew out a stream of smoke, watching it unfurl into the night like a fern. “But even on my parents’ farm… I don’t know… it feels _different_ , compared to this sort of country.”

 

Jon took the cigarette from her. “I can see that,” he said. “But I don’t think that makes you any less of a country girl.” He passed the cigarette back over, smiling. “It doesn’t make you not a city slicker, either.”

 

She swatted him playfully on the arm. “Just because I don’t know how to run a fucking cattle ranch does not mean-”

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he cursed, interrupting. He sat up and she was forced to follow, looking at him, bewildered. He dug out his phone from his back pocket and swore softly as he read whatever message awaited him on his screen. He ran his hand through his hair with a groan. “I have to go. Problems on the homefront.”

 

She frowned, the real world suddenly crashing in around her. _That’s right_ , she thought. _He has a job to do, things to be done._

 

He looked at her apologetically, forlorn. “I’ve never been less pleased with the idea of going home.”

 

She smiled, leaning her forehead against his own. “Only a few more weeks, right?”

 

He smiled back, kissing her, tender and sad all at once. “Right.”

 

+++

 

She was both miserable and elated for those few weeks.

 

It was strange, having him so real and so close for such a brief amount of time, only for him to disappear again into the depths of the ranch. It was like being visited by a benevolent spirit. A _very_ benevolent spirit.

 

The days passed as slow and mundane as she could have guessed. She found herself desperate to fill the void.

 

“Olenna’s furnace went tits-up this morning,” she told his voicemail the day after their picnic. “Whole house is freezing. Olenna keeps cursing and beating the walls with her hands as if it’s just asleep and she can wake it up.”

 

“Had something stuck in my shoe all day today,” she explained after the ‘beep’ as she walked back to Olenna’s car after her shift, three days later. “There should be a word for that, you know? Get back to me on that, would you?”

 

“I have a theory: there isn’t shit out in the way of movies right now, that’s why you’ve decided to forsake the civilized world. Can’t say I blame you.”

 

“Sam is more talkative than usual. He must miss you and your brooding silences.”

 

“At the drugstore right now, looking for nail polish. How can I get a job naming these colors? ‘Outrageous Orange’ is just plain lazy. How dare they, honestly?”

 

And so it went. She called him up whenever she had moment alone-- walking to the car, painting her toenails, coming out of the shower with her brain full of the sort of thoughts that sprout up when one is shampooing their hair, for whatever reason.

 

That was, until one night she called him up to tell him that Missy had suggested taking a weekend trip to Missoula, and the recording on the other end informed her that his mailbox was full.

 

That borderline-crazy behavior was perhaps why she found herself at Blackwater Brewery with Missy and Gilly, two weeks after the picnic. Both women were entirely fed up with her maddening mix of melancholy and giddiness, and determined to blot it out of her with alcohol and ‘girl talk’.

 

It was slower tonight, the taproom not nearly as noisy, the barn and stable doors thrown open that evening, the first truly mild night of the year. The babble of beer-clutching patrons was undercut by the cheerful rustle of crickets filtering through the door at her back. Moon-washed willows swayed in the breeze, the smell of summer hidden in its breath.

 

“Not to be a total downer, but... have you told your cowboy about… well, you know?” Missy asked her as they all settled down in the booth, her eyebrows quirked in an annoyingly knowing way.

 

“Why even ask that question?” Dany said somewhat snappishly, looking into the foam of her pilsner. Jon would have been horrified-- pilsners were “only next to cow piss”, in his humble opinion. “Of course I haven’t.” She picked at the rapidly deteriorating napkin under her mug. “How do I bring up the fact that I used to be married when he just had his face in my crotch?”

 

Gilly snorted into her mug, effectively spraying porter onto her face. Missy simply tilted her head, lips pressed together as if trying not to smile. “Sounds like as good of a time to do it as any, honestly.”

 

“How are your classes going, Missy?” Dany hedged as Gilly wiped her face from beside her.

 

“Fine,” Missy answered as she sipped her IPA. “Boring, but fine.”

 

“Dany and I noticed you came home rather late from your class last Monday,” Gilly pointed out, trying to sound as innocent as possible as she looked at the other woman from over her glass.

 

Missy shook her head disapprovingly. “You two are a fucking menace.”

 

Gilly and Dany exchanged a knowing glance. “Sounds an awful lot like you’re hiding something,” Dany replied with a grin.

 

“Fine,” Missy declared curtly. “I was out on a… well, on a date, I guess you could call it.”

 

“Oo,” Gilly crowed, leaning forward in intrigue. “A date! And who is the lucky son-of-a-gun?”

 

Missy snorted at Gilly’s charming habit of finding whimsical substitutions for the swear words that her two friends were so fond of. She fiddled with the damp napkin under her mug. “His name is Jacob, and he is a musician.”

 

“Must be quite a man,” Dany said with a quirked brow. “To catch your eye.”

 

She watched as Missy’s olive cheeks deepened. “He is… well, he is very nice.”

 

“Missy, I am so happy for you,” Gilly said earnestly, leaning forward and touching her arm. She looked over at Dany with a happy grin. “Looks like we’re all meeting wonderful men.”

 

“A fucking miracle, if you ask me,” Missy muttered. “Speaking of which,” she said, brightening. “How are things with you and Sam, Gilly?”

 

Gilly smiled, wide and bright and not self-conscious in the least. She ran her thumbs nervously over the condensation that had gathered on the side of her glass. “Things are good.” She eventually wilted under the heat of her friends’ gazes, cheeks ablaze. “Really good.”

 

Missy threw her head back in laughter as Dany clapped her on the shoulder. “Good for you, Gilly!”

 

Gilly’s face drew in, her eyes suddenly glum. “I wish he would get out of his parents’ house, though.” She shook her head, clearly pained. “His father is such a… a....”

 

“Asshole?” Missy supplied and Gilly nodded.

 

Dany stroked her friend’s back comfortingly, frowning. “I’m sure Olenna would be glad to have him, if you asked.”

 

Gilly shook her head again, a bit frustrated, as if it were a sore subject. “I’ve already asked him,” she said sourly. “He thinks it would be _charity_ or some nonsense.”

 

Missy scoffed. “He obviously doesn’t know Olenna that well.”

 

All three women snickered in tacit agreement, not noticing the two men approaching their table.

 

“Pardon us, ladies.” Sheriff Davos greeted them with a smile as he approached their table. “Everything alright tonight?”

 

“We’re doing great, sheriff,” Missandei returned a bit stiffly, taken aback. “What can we do for you?”

 

Dany had only had brief, perfunctory interactions with the stern old sheriff before, when he had answered Mr. Tarly’s repeated complaints about Olenna’s parties. He had always been kind and level-headed… as well as somewhat flustered in his short exchanges with Olenna. Missandei and Dany liked to giggle and tease their landlady about the sheriff’s poorly hidden crush, much to Olenna’s chagrin.

 

“I apologize for the intrusion, ladies, but I’m taking my new deputy around… a sort of meet-and-greet of the locals that he’ll be serving.” He indicated the tall, grizzled man standing a pace behind him. “This is Jorah Mormont. His father was sheriff before me. Ole Jorah, here, decided to come back to his hometown, follow in his father’s footsteps.”

 

The man stepped closer, pushing back his hat.. “Ladies,” he greeted them.

 

“Jorah, this is Missandei, but she goes by Missy. She works at the theatre on Main Street.”

 

Missandei held her hand out and Jorah took it with a nod. Davos then introduced Gilly and turned to Dany. “And this is Dany… she’s one of the newer residents of Winterfell. She works with Missandei at the theatre.”

 

“Pleasure,” the man rumbled. His pale blue eyes caught on hers and a strange light passed over them.

 

She felt something queer unfurl in her belly and she slid her hand from his somewhat abruptly.

 

“You ladies have any trouble at all,” the man said, barely taking his eyes away from her, “you know where to find me, I suspect?”

 

“Yes, of course, Officer. Thank you.” Gilly answered sweetly.

 

“Have a good rest of the night, ladies. Stay out of trouble!” Davos called brightly as he stepped to the next table. Jorah hesitated for a moment, nodding to Dany in a way that made her feel oddly… _known_ , before he went to join the sheriff.

 

“That was… weird,” Missy said emphatically as Dany turned her attention back to her friends, shaken.

 

“Glad I wasn’t the only one,” Dany muttered as she took a healthy pull of her beer.

 

“Ugh, can you imagine?” Gilly said, wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something particularly foul. “Calling the police and _that_ guy showing up?”

 

“Can you call the cops on a cop?” Missy postulated.

 

All three women fell into helpless laughter, the shadow cast upon the night thoroughly forgotten, for now.

 

+++

 

_Last of the calves dropped tonight._

 

She bit her lip against her smile, gathering her knees to her chest as she pushed aside her sketchbook to type out a reply. _The times, they are a-changin'?_

 

 _Sure are_.

 

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, wondering what to reply with… feeling exceedingly foolish, just then. She did not want to seem too eager… but then, why shouldn’t she? _So when am I gonna see you again, old man?_

 

_Still have to wait for the vet to look everyone over, make counts and the like._

 

She huffed, disappointed. _So still another few days?_

 

 _Aye_.

 

As she was inwardly laughing at the fact that he actually spelled out this queer colloquialism, her phone buzzed again. _We always have a big BBQ to celebrate. You should come._

 

She was typing out an enthusiastic ‘yes’ when another message ‘dinged’ in before she could hit ‘send’. _If that’s not too much for you. Whole family will be there. It’ll be nuts. Understand if it’s too soon._

 

She huffed out a breath, endeared and exasperated. _Don’t be silly, I’d love to come. When is it?_

 

_Looking like Friday. I know you have to work. Can you get out of it?_

 

_I think I can swing it._

 

_See ya then, cowgirl._

 

She beamed, looking over at her Gustav Klimt calendar hung on the wall opposite her. _Three days._ She was just going to clamber out of her rumpled bed to find a pen to mark the date (as if she would forget) when her phone buzzed again.

 

_And the word for something stuck in your shoe is ‘annoying’. There’s nothing else for it._

 

She laughed, falling back into her pillows in an elated heap, thinking that three days was entirely too long.

 

+++

 

She and Missy were jamming entirely too enthusiastically to ‘Gigantic’ by The Pixies when she saw blue lights in the rearview.

 

Dany cursed, turning down the music and pulling Olenna’s Datsun into the closest parking lot she could find-- Cat’s Convenience Store. It was empty, being half-past ten in the evening.

 

“Can you get pulled over for having too much fun?” Missy muttered as she dug in her purse for her wallet.

 

Dany shrugged, craning her neck to peer in the sideview, seeing the tall man they’d met at the brewery climb out his patrol car. “Fuck, Missy, it’s that new deputy.”

 

Missy’s eyes widened. “The creepy guy?”

 

Dany nodded as she rolled the window down. Jorah Mormont bent over, peering in with a flashlight. Pretty overkill, considering the parking lot was flooded with with orange glow of streetlights.

 

“What can we do for you, officer?” Dany asked as politely as she could while squinting against the glare shining into her face.

 

“Ladies,” Jorah greeted, tilting the flashlight away. “Fancy seeing you here.”

 

“Did we do something wrong, officer?” Missy asked pointedly, patience already run dry.

 

Jorah leaned away, looking to the rear of the car. “Looks like you have a tail light out.”

 

Dany suppressed a snort. The Datsun’s tail light had been out since before she had moved into Tyrell House. Olenna had a bit of clout with the Winterfell law enforcement, after all. Dany thought it best not to reveal this little secret just then, though. This new deputy obviously had a lot to learn about the way of the world in this little town. “Sorry, officer. We didn’t know. We’ll get that looked into.”

 

Jorah squinted at her, staring for a moment she deemed definitely longer than necessary. “Where are you two ladies headed so late at night?”

 

Dany exchanged a swift, alarmed look with Missy, before turning back to the deputy. “Just heading home, officer.”

 

“Ah,” he said, tucking a thumb into his belt, “and where would that be?”

 

Something strange and cold inched down Dany’s spine at that, her natural distrust of police triggering a fight response, as foolish as it was. “Is that really any of your business?”

 

 _“Dany,”_ Missy hissed warningly as Jorah’s eyebrows shot up.

 

He leaned down again, bringing his face level with her own. “I could just ask to see your driver’s license, ma’am.”

 

Dany was certain she was just being paranoid, that she was just fucked up enough to think that his words were more of a veiled threat than a new cop in a new town throwing his weight around a bit. That she was just imagining things when she got the strange feeling that the officer just somehow _knew_ she didn’t have a driver’s license.

 

“We live at the Tyrell Boarding House, up Rose Road, Officer,” Missy finally offered, the tension breaking her resolve.

 

Dany closed her eyes, inwardly cursing her friend’s loose tongue. She heard the deputy shift away, the heat of his eyes leaving her face. “That‘s a long drive,” he observed, friendliness finding itself back into his voice.

 

Dany turned her head to glare at him. He clicked off his flashlight and tipped his hat to them. “Be safe, ladies. It’s dangerous out here, this late at night.”

 

“Thank you, officer,” Missy called after him as he walked back to his patrol car.

 

Dany released a huge breath, dropping her forehead to the steering wheel.

 

“What the fuck was that about?” Missy immediately complained.

 

Dany started up the engine again, wondering what to tell her, how to explain her strange behavior. “Don’t like cops,” is what she came up with.

 

“No one likes fucking cops!” Missy complained, waving a hand. “But you can’t just disrespect them like that. That’s how you get in a lot of fucking trouble.” She flopped back in her seat, hand on her forehead. “Trust me, I would fucking know.”

 

Dany glanced over at her at her friend, now feeling properly miserable. Missy had her own ways of dealing with law enforcement, her own strategies of survival. She wasn’t some naive girl, trusting that cops were the good guys.

 

They were silent for a time as they made the way back to Olenna’s, tension thick. “I wish you hadn’t told him where we lived.”

 

“And what if I didn’t?” Missy asked, irritable. “Then he would have asked you for your fucking license, he would have known you’ve been driving around without one.” She shook her head. “Don’t know why I let you drive anyway.”

 

“That’s not what really troubles me,” Dany replied, glancing at the rearview.

 

Missy huffed, crossing her arms. “I know he’s creepy, Dany, but don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?”

 

Dany paused, staring blankly out the windscreen. “I don’t know.”

 

“Well I think you should talk to Tyrion when we get back,” Missy declared as she pulled out her phone. “I think he could help, if you’re worried. I’ll text him.”

 

Dany heaved out a defeated breath, some of her adrenaline falling away, leaving her weak and tired. “Sure. Okay.”

 

+++

 

“Fucking Jorah Mormont,” Olenna muttered as she leaned back in the wicker chair, kicking up her slippered feet on the porch rail in front of her.

 

Dany sipped at her scalding coffee as she watched Gendry replace the tail light in the old Datsun on the front lawn. “That’s not the most reassuring thing to hear,” she said dryly.

 

Olenna shook her head. “I haven’t heard that name in almost thirty years.” She scratched her chin, eyes pondering. “He was a quiet lad. Married the first girl he ever laid eyes on, by my estimation. Moved to some hellhole suburb on the east coast, never to be seen or heard of again.” She sighed, reaching down to give a scratch to the old Irish Wolfhound, Baxley, who had been whining at her elbow.

 

“Well, whoever he _really_ is won’t be a mystery for long,” Tyrion quipped from her other side.

 

“Never had to deal with shady law enforcement before,” Olenna mused grumpily. “Should start charging you more, girl.”

 

Tyrion snorted into his mug.

 

“What are you laughing about?”

 

Tyrion waved a hand at Olenna, smirking knowingly. “You act like you hate all of this.”

 

“Oh, sod off, you miserable dwarf,” the old woman returned. She looked back to Dany, her eyes serious. “In the meantime, my girl, I suggest you get that cowboy of yours to show you the way around a gun.”

 

Dany barked a disbelieving laugh. “Are you serious?” she asked, a bit stunned. “Isn’t that a bit drastic?”

 

Olenna waved an impatient hand at her. “Not if it keeps you safe.” She leaned forward, fingers folding over her wrist. “Besides, who would pass up shooting practice with Jon Snow, hmm?”

 

Dany laughed again, shaking her head as she took another sip of her coffee, trying hard not to think of the very strong, very pleasant image of Jon bracing up behind her, steady and patient as she fired round after round into a  tree stump.

 

“Ah,” Olenna said with a knowing smile. “There it is, child.” She rose to her feet, gathering up her mug and her half-eaten lemon muffin. “Now, lets leave poor Gendry to it, shall we? There are chickens to be fed.”

 

+++

 

 _“We're getting out now while we can_  
_You're welcome, boys, have the last of the smokes and chicken_ _  
_ Just one Cadillac will do to get us out to where we're going”

 _\--_ “I Love You, Honeybear” Father John Misty

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this is late. I have been on the Struggle Bus (TM). My only safe haven, this story, started to give me fits too. *Wags finger at fics* fucking behave, would you?
> 
> Yes, I totally stole the voicemail idea from The Office. No, I am not ashamed. Jim and Pam is one of the best love stories ever. Why WOULDN'T I use that scene as inspiration?
> 
> Thank you to the Tarts-- ever loyal, salty, thirsty and witty as ever. Special shoutout goes to Justwanderingneverlost for that SPECTACULAR moodboard. <3
> 
> And thank you to [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal)for being the astute angel beta she is. <3
> 
> And let me know what you think, dear readers, the most important part in this weird, weird machine we call fic writing. Love you all to bits. Have a nice holiday!


	8. SPRING, V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smirked, her cheeks warming as they continued down the rutted trail. “Thanks.” She looked him over, noticing a lack of trunks. “Will you not be joining us?”
> 
> He laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. I’m not an insane person.”
> 
> “Is that your attempt to talk me out of it?” she huffed. 
> 
> He grinned, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He glanced over at her, something fond and knowing blooming in his eyes. “Don’t think I could ever talk _you_ out of it.”

  
  


Dany tried to suppress her child-like excitement and inexplicable nerves as Gendry guided his little Tacoma up the dusty track. 

 

“Don’t be nervous,” he assured her. “Cat’s really quite nice.”

 

Dany gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re not the one dating her reviled stepson.”

 

Gendry tilted his head with a frown. “Guess that’s true.”

 

She huffed out a breath and leaned her head back in the seat. “I’m really more afraid of what  _ I’m  _ liable to do if she tries any funny business.”

 

Gendry laughed quietly at that. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Arya and Sansa know how to keep their mother in line well enough.” He shook his head with a silly, wistful grin, clearly smitten. “Wouldn’t be at all surprised if Arya hasn’t already given Cat an earful.”

 

Dany smiled, comforted. Gendry was a sweet man, even if he didn’t talk much, and was proving to be an invaluable source of information in the face of her own, relative ignorance of the Stark Ranch and the family who owned it. In addition to his work on the ranch, he and the youngest Stark daughter had been “going steady” for three months now. He knew his way around, so to speak. 

 

“Thanks for driving me, Gendry,” she offered with a grateful smile. “And for the insider information.” 

 

He grinned. “Of course.” He pointed through the windshield. “There it is,” he said. “Stark Ranch.”

 

She leaned forward in her seat, pushing her sunglasses back into her hair, her heart picking up as the main compound came into view, nestled in a little green valley below. 

 

Large paddocks and cobalt-roofed stables and other assortments of buildings all surrounded a large courtyard-looking area lined with enormous pines and a split cedar fence. To the back of this array loomed a huge house with stacked stone corners and foundations and split-wood walls. It was even bigger and more imposing than Tyrell House, with huge, rough-hewn wood beams supporting the roof of the large front porch. 

 

The Rockys jutted up from behind the mansion like a mantle, bleak and beautiful as they reached to the blazing blue jewel of the sky. 

 

“Holy shit,” she murmured. 

 

Gendry barked a laugh. “Yeah, it’s quite something. ‘Specially with the wildflowers in bloom.”

 

“Where is everyone?” she asked as she craned her neck, looking to and fro for some evidence of people. As it was, the only signs of life were a smattering of horses grazing in a runyard next to a stable, and the knots of cows gathered in the paddocks. 

 

“Probably in the backyard,” Gendry postulated as they creeped slowly down the hill. “Poking the fire and getting drunk, most like.”

 

Dany snorted, but she did notice a trail of blue smoke floating up from behind the left side of the house. 

 

She bit her lip, settling deeper into her seat, trying to get a hold of herself. She picked at the hem of her dress-- an adorable thrift store find from a few years ago. An A-line fit-and-flare with pockets and yellow accents, splashed with cheery, watercolored cacti. It was an absolutely stunning day-- her regular jeans and a t-shirt simply would not do. 

 

Gendry pulled the truck into a large carport, already crowded with vehicles, cars and others besides. “Ah, here they come,” Gendry said with a grin as he yanked up on the parking brake. 

 

Dany looked past him, seeing a large group of people coming from the corner of the house, some faces familiar, many more not. She had missed Jon, to be sure, these past few weeks, but seeing him now was something else entirely. She opened the door, willing herself to not leap out of the cab and go rushing to him. 

 

She and Gendry were momentarily lost in a tide of shouted, excited greetings and much back slapping. After knocking cheeks with Sansa, Robb, and Arya, Jon stepped forward, hands in his hoodie. 

 

“Hello,” he said with a stupid grin. 

 

They had known each other only a few months, had been  _ dating _ even less than that, but Dany somehow knew that PDA was definitely not Jon’s thing, even though she had not really thought about it before. Even in private, his touches were rationed and purposeful, so she kept her distance. She was in  _ his  _ neck of the woods now; she would play by his rules, even if it drove her mad. 

 

“Hello,” she returned brightly, hand on her hip. 

 

He seemed able to resist no longer, stepping forward and grabbing her up in a fierce hug that brought her heels from the grass. “You look nice,” he whispered as he pulled away, as quickly as he had stepped forward. 

 

She smirked at him. “Your talent for flattery has improved, old man.”

 

He smiled at her, helpless, tucking his hands back into his hoodie as if restraining himself. “You can teach an old dog new tricks.”

 

“Snow, are you bothering this nice young lady?” a great voice boomed from behind Jon’s shoulder. A large, wild-eyed, red-bearded man came ambling up, thumbs tucked into his belt as he bent at the waist to better look her over, brazen. Dany quirked an eyebrow. The man looked more a swashbuckler than a cowhand. 

 

“Dany, this is Tormund,” Jon said with an exasperated breath. “Tormund, Dany.”

 

Dany held out her hand and Tormund took it, hands as rough as bark. His eyes widened, looking from Jon to her. “You mean to tell me you convinced  _ this _ woman to talk to the likes of you?”

 

“It is shocking, I’ll give you that,” Dany quipped before Jon could shoot back. Tormund roared in laughter, slapping his thigh. 

 

“Oh, Snow, I see why you like this one so much.”

 

Jon shook his head, feigning outrage. “Tormund, do you always have to be such a shit?” 

 

“Not starting fights, are we, Tormund?” another voice called from behind them before any could answer. A tall blonde woman walked toward them, eyes the color of the sky and hair the color of flax. She looked at Tormund accusingly, her hand on her hip. She glanced between Dany and Jon. “Jon, is this the girl we’ve heard so little about?”

 

“Dany, this is my stunning fiancée, Brienne,” Tormund announced proudly, slapping a hand on the woman’s shoulder. 

 

“Pleasure,” Dany said as she stepped forward and shook Brienne‘s hand. The other woman nearly crushed her fingers in her own, callused palm. Dany stifled the urge to shake out her hand as they drew apart. 

 

Jon gestured to the path out of the carport. “Shall we? Can make more introductions on the way.”

 

Dany nodded, following him to the house, faintly relieved. She had estimated that Jon and his…  _ crew _ would be somewhat rowdy… somewhat ‘larger than life’. Ranch life only attracted wayward souls, she had rightly assumed. But the full enormity of it was starting to overwhelm her. She was definitely used to the more mundane dynamics of “city folk”, their ways of relating to one another generally limited to the TV shows they watched and the bars they preferred. She had no doubt that if she asked Tormund what his favorite season of “Breaking Bad” was she would be met with a mystified stare. 

 

They made their way back into the sun. Dany turned her head as a happy squeal sounded from behind them. Gendry raced ahead of them, a giddy, red-faced Arya perched upon his back, piggyback style. “Ah, young love,” Tormund sighed.

 

Jon slowed, pulling level with her. They now walked behind the veritable wall that was Brienne and Tormund. He nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

 

Dany shook her head, a bit overwhelmed to be sure, but still finding that she was enjoying herself immensely. “Everyone seems very nice so far.” 

 

Jon laughed. “That’s a word for it.”

 

They crossed the immense shadow of the house, passing a great many rose bushes loaded with buds (Dany inwardly sniggered, thinking of what Olenna would have to say about that), before they came to the large, grassy backyard. 

 

It was more nondescript than she was expecting, truth be told. It was huge, bordered by a handsome pine fence, but rather scruffy and unmanicured-- as if there hadn’t been much time in the recent weeks to clear away the winter wild. 

 

Still, though, it was impressive, in its own rustic, thoroughly western way. Great trunks of trees hewn and hacked into benches circled a stone fire pit twice the size of the one at Olenna’s. A spacious, covered back deck reached into the area, anchored by a long wooden table at its center that looked older than Olenna was. Chairs and tables of various materials and levels of disrepair, along with faded café umbrellas, littered the scrappy lawn. An old tire swing hung from a huge maple tree towards the back, and a large wheeled smoker billowed away at the far side. Three people were gathered around it, poking about with beers in their hands and listening to what sounded like flamenco music blaring from a dusty boom box resting on a tree stump. Three dogs were wrestling and yapping in the corner, squabbling over a bone. 

 

“Got some beer,” Jon said as he lead her over to a rusty old metal wash basin on the deck, beaded with perspiration and brimming with frosty brews. “Sorry. Know it’s not your favorite.” 

 

She shrugged, reaching in and pulling out a Pacifico. “Not really the weather for wine, anyway.”

 

He smiled as he took the bottle from her and popped it open with his trusty multitool. He handed it back over and retrieved a Shiner Bock for himself. 

 

“This beer selection must really offend you,” she pointed out, taking a sip. She’d always had a soft spot for Mexican beers. They were undeniably refreshing. “Not an IPA in sight.”

 

He laughed as they made their way to the smoker. “It’s not ideal, but I can’t be drinking Blackwater brews all day. I’d never make it.”

 

She was just going to retort with her knowledge of just what a lightweight he was when there came a shout from up ahead. A  gangly young man was jogging toward them. “Oy! Snow!” he called, coming to a stop before them, blue eyes going wide. “Fuck me, is this your girl, Snow?”

 

Dany bit back a smirk as she glanced over to Jon, who was rolling his eyes in a very knowing way at the other man. “Theon, Dany. Dany, Theon.”

 

“That’s no way to introduce a lady like this, Snow,” Theon said with a waggled eyebrow as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “And certainly no way to introduce your brother in everything but name.”

 

Jon sighed, turning to her and shrugging in apology. “We grew up together,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “So I’m forced to be in his company every once in awhile.”

 

“Is my shithead brother being a shithead again?” a new voice joined in before Dany could answer. The voice belonged to a solemn-faced, grey-eyed woman, hand already offered before her. Dany took it and the other woman squeezed with more force than really necessary. “Yara Grey, sister to this garbage human.” 

 

Dany was a bit taken aback, honestly, as she watched Theon simply shrug in the face of this abuse. She liked to tease and talk shit just as well as the rest of them, but it was fast becoming clear that something about range life elevated this particular diversion to something of an art form. No wonder Jon, despite his quiet nature, could spitball just as well as she could. She realized now that maybe he had even held back with her on a number of occasions, if this was what his regular company was composed of. 

 

She had her work cut out for her, she could tell. 

 

“Glad to see it doesn’t seem to run in the family,” she responded.

 

Yara’s eyes lit up and she looked to Jon, brows raised. “Good job, Snow.” 

 

Jon nodded with a small smile, blush rising in his cheeks. “How’s the brisket?”

 

“Nearly there,” Yara answered, her face falling, annoyed. “But the men won’t stop puttering about, poking the coals like fucking Neanderthals. Oberyn, especially.” 

 

“Did I hear my name?” a tall, slender, dark-skinned man sing-songed as he ambled up to the group. 

 

“Aye,” Yara replied crossly. “I don’t know how they smoke brisket in Argentina, but here in the states we don’t open the smoker door every three minutes like a bored toddler.”

 

The man Dany assumed to be Oberyn rolled his eyes before turning his attention to her. “And who is this beautiful señorita?” he asked, taking up her hand and kissing her knuckles in a much more suave manner than Theon had. 

 

“Oberyn, this is Dany,” Jon said with some suspicion in his eyes. “And don’t pull your shit and try to charm her away from me.” 

 

Oberyn pulled back, looking artificially outraged. He clicked his tongue. “I would never dare such a thing, Snow.”

 

“Yes, you would,” Yara and Theon chimed at the same time. 

 

Dany laughed as Oberyn shook his head. “Forgive these savages, señorita. They’re just not used to the sophisticated company of a gaucho.” 

 

Dany was just going to ask what, exactly, a gaucho was, when Arya and Sansa came trotting up. “Ready for a dip?” Sansa asked excitedly. “Pod and Rickon are already at the river.”

 

Jon and Arya exchanged knowing looks. “Oh  _ Pod’s _ there. We have to get going if  _ Pod _ is there,” Arya crowed. 

 

Sansa rolled her eyes before turning back to Dany. “Did you bring a bathing suit?”

 

“Uh, yeah,” Dany replied uncertainly, patting the cheap reusable grocery bag she had pilfered from Olenna’s car. “But… you’re actually going to  _ swim _ ?”

 

“Well, yeah,” Sansa answered with a laugh. “Why else would we ask you to bring a bathing suit?”

 

Dany paused, her previous doubts falling away in the wake of the Stark sisters' certitude. It was balmy, by Montana-in-late-spring standards-- but even then, it was only 78 degrees. And Dany had serious doubts about the temperature of the Blackwater at this time of year… at any time of year, really. 

 

“There’s a bathroom just to the left, once you go in there,” Sansa said as she pointed to the open French doors off the back deck that led into the house. 

 

Dany looked to where she was pointing, before turning her eyes back to Jon, feeling oddly like she needed reassurance. 

 

He seemed to catch on well enough. He nodded to the path his sister had just indicated, holding out his hand. “After you.”

 

She turned, a little smirk lighting her face as they made their way into the house.  _ Finally some time alone.  _

 

She found herself standing in quite possibly the largest kitchen she had ever seen. And that was saying something-- she grew up wealthy, after all. Stone floors buffed smooth and shiny by generations of feet seemingly covered the entirety of the ground floor, smattered with furs and old rugs. An ancient soapstone sink sat under a wide strip of windows on the opposite wall. 

 

Her face fell a bit as she caught sight of the woman standing at said sink. She realized two things at once: that not only was this most likely the just-about-legendary-stepmother, but also that her plans of pulling Jon into a shadowy corner to make out like the horny teenagers they were had been thwarted before they even properly formed. 

 

“Who are you?” another woman she didn’t notice snapped, rising from her chair at the old kitchen table where she had been shucking corn. She was tall, pinch-faced, sallow-skinned.

 

“Um,” was the best Dany could do.

 

“Sush, Lysa, it’s just Jon’s date,” Catelyn admonished, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked towards them. “Hello, dear. Sorry for my sister. She’s a bit paranoid.” 

 

The woman in question sank back into her chair at the massive table, lingering suspicion in her eyes. Dany turned her attention back to the woman in front of her, nodding as she took her hand. Well-worn, work roughened. The hands of a mother. “Nice to meet you Mrs. Stark.”

 

“Cat, this is Dany,” Jon introduced belatedly. 

 

“Thank you for having me, Mrs. Stark. Your home is beautiful,” Dany said as brightly as she could. 

 

Catelyn waved a hand at her. “The yard’s a sorry mess! And besides, you haven’t seen the half of it.” With that, the woman captured her arm, wheeling her away to presumably give her a tour. Dany shot an alarmed look over her shoulder at Jon, pleading for help. He simply shrugged back, giving her a tiny wave with two fingers. 

 

Oh, she was going to give him hell.

 

+++ 

 

“Enjoy your tour?” 

 

Dany nearly smacked him right in his pretty mouth as she marched back into the yard, clad in her bathing suit and an old, ratty kimono she had found in the closet of a shitty motel she had lived at, for a time. She had been sure to wash it thoroughly, of course. “I thought you said she was horrible.” 

 

He shook his head determinedly as they turned to walk to the back of the yard and make the hike to the river beyond. “I never said that,” he protested. “She’s horrible  _ to me _ . Very specifically  _ me _ . She fucking loves newcomers. Loves to show off for a bit. Doesn’t seem to matter if they’re attached to me. She loved Ygritte, after all.”

 

His eyes slanted in pain and Dany slowed, grabbing ahold of his hand. “Jon.”

 

He looked back at her, face dark and downturned. “Just another reason for her to hate me,” he said heavily, shoulders falling as of a great weight had been lifted from his bones. Or perhaps had just settled deeper. 

 

“Why would…?” she trailed off as the answer to her question seemed to flare behind his eyes. Her heart plummeted, right to her feet. She stepped closer to him, tucking a hair that had escaped his bun behind his ear. 

 

“She’ll come to love you, too, then be glad to blame me when I fuck it all up,” he said, his voice strange, trying to tilt it into the tone of good-natured self-deprecation. It was not very successful. 

 

“I don’t think she’s going to like me very much,” Dany promised, giving him a soft, comforting smile. “Then she can hate us both when you don’t fuck it up.”

 

His smile this time was real and warm and he leaned forward, kissing her soundly. “You look nice,” he rumbled as he pulled away, the kiss infuriatingly fleeting. 

 

She smirked, her cheeks warming as they continued down the rutted trail. “Thanks.” She looked him over, noticing a lack of trunks. “Will you not be joining us?”

 

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. I’m not an insane person.”

 

“Is that your attempt to talk me out of it?” she huffed. 

 

He grinned, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He glanced over at her, something fond and knowing blooming in his eyes. “Don’t think I could  _ ever _ talk you out of it.” 

 

She felt her knees go a little wobbly and just then stumbled over a tree root like she was a fucking Disney princess. He caught her arm without a word, his smile beautiful and infuriating all at once. 

 

Yep. She was definitely fucked.

 

+++

 

As she had suspected, she sat on the sandy shore of the river, blue-lipped and shivering. She had tried, at any rate. But the Starks seemed impervious to the chill of the water. 

 

“Bloody mad, the lot of them,” Tormund grumbled from beside her as he puffed on a ridiculous pipe that made him seem like some hulking, ginger vision of Gandalf. “Starks got some crazy blood. I’m from Iceland. I can handle cold. But you won’t see me splashing about in there just for shits.”

 

Dany nodded her enthusiastic agreement, watching as Sansa and Arya took turns swinging on a rope and into the icy, rushing water from the opposite bank. Robb teased and cajoled them on, wading in the current with a beer clutched in one hand. The river was swifter than normal, Sansa had told her, brimming with snowmelt. The whole endeavor seemed like a death wish, by her estimation. 

 

“You get points for trying though, lass,” Tormund said kindly, nudging her with an elbow that nearly sent her sideways into the silt of the bank.

 

“Thanks,” she muttered through her chattering teeth. 

 

He smiled as his eyes ticked to somewhere above her head, brows lifting. “Ah, there is my lovely wife to be. Did you get lost on the way back?”

 

Brienne came to sit on Dany’s other side, passing her a beer as she shot a sardonic look at Tormund. “You’re lucky I came back at all, you lazy oaf.”

 

Tormund smiled at her adoringly, taking the offered beer.

 

Dany nodded her thanks and she and Brienne clinked bottles. She winced as she took a sip, the beer far too cold at this juncture. She settled it into the sand for later, when she felt like her toes weren’t going to fall off from the cold. “When’s the wedding?” she asked Brienne to distract herself.

 

“August,” Brienne answered with a grin. “Right before the round up.”

 

“If you and Snow are still going steady, consider yourself invited,” Tormund said, swirling his beer. “It’ll be quite a party.”

 

“Don’t doubt that,” Dany said with a knowing chuff. “Where is it going to be?”

 

“Blackwater Brewery,” Brienne returned, her blue eyes shining with excitement. “We were going to have it here, but Jon suggested the brewery.”

 

“Ah, yes, the romantic Snow,” Tormund shouted, his eyes directed past her. She turned her head to see the man in question walking towards them. He had opted for fishing with his youngest brother and the Stark Ranch’s other apprentice, Pod, further up river. “Didn’t you say something to us about how it’s where you’d want to get married?” Tormund waggled his considerable eyebrows at her as she blushed furiously. 

 

Jon slowed to a stop, shaking his head. “Is your mission in life to embarrass me, you wiley bastard?” Tormund shrugged, trying his best to look innocent. 

 

“Sorry about him,” Jon muttered as he crouched in front of her. “A bit cold there?”

 

“Could've warned me,” she managed to stutter out through her chattering teeth, not able to meet his eyes. 

 

Jon hummed in apology, shrugging out of his hoodie and throwing it over her damp shoulders. “I think I did warn you, cowgirl.” He waved a hand at Tormund. “Budge up there, would you?” 

 

Tormund obeyed, scooting to the side to make some room and Jon slid in next to her, leaning his arms on his folded knees. “Thought I could tough it out,” she mumbled miserably, pulling the hoodie further up her shoulders.

 

He laughed, leaning back and pulling out a small, silver flask from his pocket. He held it out to her, smiling fondly. “This should warm you up.” 

 

She took a swig, grimacing only a little. It was no Woodford, but she felt her shivers abate almost instantly. 

 

“Too bad I don't have any more Brennivin,” Tormund said with a tilt of his chin. “That’d warm you up better than that southern brown shit.”

 

“That shit is rocket fuel,” Brienne retorted. “Only crazy Icelandic fuckers like you would drink that.” 

 

Tormund wagged a finger at her. “You didn’t seem to mind during calving,” he pointed out, turning his attention back to Dany and Jon. “Catch anything, Snow?” Tormund asked. 

 

Jon shook his head. “You know I’m a terrible fisherman. Pod seems to be getting the knack for it though. Caught two fat ones in about twenty minutes.”

 

“At least he’s good at something,” Brienne muttered as she deftly skipped a stone over the water. 

 

“Ah, Snow,” Tormund said with a laugh, shaking his head. “How can you be so bloody good at catching cows and so bad at luring fish?”

 

Jon shook his head as Dany allowed herself the pleasant image of him swinging a rope, coiling it over the horn of his saddle, shouting and whistling to the cowdogs. She wondered if she’d ever to get to see it for herself. 

 

“Not fond of staying still that long,” Jon answered, shrugging. 

 

“Aye,” Tormund agreed with a nod. “Too used to the saddle life.”

 

“You watch movies all the time,” Dany pointed out. Jon blinked at her, realization dawning as she shook her head, taking another sip from the flask before handing it back over. “I’m pretty good at fishing, you know. Could give you some pointers.”

 

“You didn’t tell us your girl was a bumpkin like us, Snow!” Tormund exclaimed happily, clapping her on the shoulder so firmly it nearly ejected all the air from her lungs. She’d have to form the habit of steeling herself around the man, and quickly. 

 

“Tormund, fuck’s sake, could you refrain from beating Jon’s date to death, please?” Brienne said crossly. “You don’t know your own strength.”

 

“Sorry,” Tormund muttered.

 

“And she’s not a bumpkin, especially compared to you,” Jon shot back with a grin. “She’s more cosmopolitan than you would ever know about.”

 

“I’ll have you know,” Tormund began haughtily, “that I lived in a city once.”

 

“Reykjavik doesn’t count,” Brienne chimed, tossing another stone into the river. 

 

Jon looked back to her, nudging her with a shoulder. She almost flinched, having grown too used to Tormund’s well-meaning but mighty touches. “Feeling better?”

 

She nodded. “Don’t feel like I’m going to die of hypothermia anymore, so it’s a start.”

 

He got to his feet and held out a hand. She took it and hoisted herself up shakily, her feet still a bit numb. “Should be getting back,” he told her, picking up her bag and kimono from the ground. “They’ll need help setting everything up.”

 

+++ 

 

She couldn’t really remember if she had ever had a meal like this before. 

 

Her mother would host stately dinner parties for her father’s distinguished guests, but those were very different affairs-- complete with linen napkins and elaborate place settings. 

 

She  _ had _ gone to a low country boil once… when she was seven, for the head porter at Targaryen Farm’s son’s birthday. Or something like that. She couldn’t truly remember… but she remembered the  _ food _ quite clearly-- along with the cheap plastic bibs, the butcher paper on the table in lieu of plates, a roll of brown paper towels passed hand to hand. She had had a grand time. 

 

She decided that this was the closest approximation she would get. 

 

They all sat around the enormous trestle table on the back deck that seemed like something out of a castle, under a delightful web of twinkle lights, the sun setting into the mountains at her back. Indeed, butcher paper had been spread over the table, set with heavy Chinet plates and paper towels. 

 

Blue-speckled enamel pots full of boiled corn, ham hock peas, and mac and cheese were passed around with muttered oaths about scalded fingers… a detail she found as perplexing as weirdly charming.  

 

The barbeque sauce was definitely not what she was used to. “Chimichurri, just like home,” Oberyn had told her with a grin as he handed her the bowl filled with the  aromatic green sauce. She had had chimichurri before… but always with a well-charred, bloody skirt steak. Never with a fatty, jiggly, smoked brisket. 

 

“This is the best goddamned thing I’ve ever eaten,” she told Jon thickly.

 

He placed his little taco down-- another curiosity of said barbeque. Charred corn tortillas were served with the meal, as opposed to fluffy yeast rolls or cornbread, as she would have assumed. She wondered if it was simply Oberyn’s influence, or if it was a more general ‘Montana thing’. “That good, huh?” he asked. She shook her head in disbelief, taking another enthusiastic bite as her answer. “Should try a taco,” he suggested, lifting his own, half-eaten one. “I have kind of a method.”

 

Arya scoffed from Dany’s other side. “Oh, please, your tacos are shit compared to mine.” There was a gasped, scandalized “ _ Arya!”  _ from the head of the table, where Cat Stark sat. Arya shrugged at her mother in apology before turning back to Dany and Jon. She tilted her beer at her brother, eyebrows quirked. “You put too much sauce on them.”

 

“And you overstuff yours, you glutton,” Jon shot back. Gendry snorted into his iced tea and Arya gave him such a glare that Dany saw his grin disappear from his face in an instant. 

 

“Are we arguing about proper taco construction?” Sansa called from Gendry’s other side. “Do we have to do this every year? Mine are obviously the best.”

 

“Never understood you bloody southerner’s obsession with tacos,” Tormund chimed in from across the table. “Tortillas are for picking up the meat without getting your hands dirty. Everyone knows that.”

 

“You’re supposed to use a fork, you barbarian,” Brienne responded through a mouthful of mac and cheese. 

 

“The perfect taco is in the eye of the beholder,” Oberyn declared easily, lifting his beer. “It’s all subjective.”

 

“Well, on that note, I’d like to propose a toast!” Cat interjected, coming to her feet with her tiny glass of sherry clutched in hand. “First, to our new apprentice, Podrick, who has proven as invaluable as he is kind. Thank you, Brienne, for bringing him to us.”

 

Brienne elbowed Pod in the ribs, smiling fondly at him as she clinked her glass of tea to his Coke. The man in question looked thoroughly flustered. 

 

“Second, to Yara and Oberyn for the fine job they did on this brisket.” A hearty cheer went up at that, Tormund pounding his fist on the table while Theon looked sulky, obviously not receiving the credit he felt he’d earned. 

 

“And last, but not least, to another successful calving. Not one head lost. Ned would be proud of all of you.” At this, Dany couldn’t help but see the shuttering of Cat’s eyes as her roving gaze landed upon Jon, as she took a sip of her sherry. Jon, to his credit, ignored it, opting to slap Robb on the back in triumph, sat to his right. 

 

“And to Rickon!” Sansa called, holding out her beer. “To his first calving! May he be traumatized for life!”

 

There were hearty laughs from everyone as Theon clapped the boy on the back. The noise died away as all those gathered began tucking into their meals anew. 

 

“Here,” Jon said as he plopped a taco onto her plate. “Mine are the best, don’t let these fools tell you otherwise.”

 

“We’ll see who’s the best,” Arya challenged as she took a sip of her beer. “When we get to shooting later.”

 

Dany felt a thrill run up her spine at that, unaware that such an event was a part of the itinerary. “Shooting?” she asked, covering her full mouth. It was fucking delicious.

 

“A good old fashioned shootout,” Arya answered with a wicked grin. “I’ll beat you this year, brother.”

 

Jon snorted. “Maybe if I let you.”

 

“Can I join in this year?” Robb whined from Jon’s other side. “You two always steal the show.”

 

“That’s because we’re the best,” Arya pointed out, wiping her mouth and standing up. “I’m going to go take some practice shots.” 

 

“I’ll be sure to take my time,” Jon called over his shoulder. “Give you a head start.” 

 

Arya lifted her hand, flicking him off spectacularly without turning her head as she walked into the yard.

 

Dany nudged him with her elbow, suppressing a smile. “Never took you for a cocky sort of person.”

 

“It’s all in good fun,” Robb said with a shrug. “Jon loves to rile her up. Plus, he’s got every right to be cocky when it comes to shooting.”

 

Dany bit her lip, a dumb, girlish excitement flooding through her as she leaned closer to him. “Can’t wait to see what you got, old man,” she whispered.

 

The blush that creeped up his neck at that had no rival, but it did not stop him from turning his face towards her, making her heart stop with the look he gave her. “That bag,” he said, voice low as he inclined his head to the open kitchen door across the deck where her bag rested by the threshold. “Does it have… clothes to sleep in?”

 

She felt a flash of of heat jolt her to the roots of her hair. She bit her lip, remembering the near agony she had endured that morning as she had packed up her bag. She had stuffed her bathing suit, a pair of jeans and t-shirt for after the “the swim” into it, before hovering over the other perfectly unassuming pile of clothes-- a pair of panties and a large  _ Jurassic Park _ tee, her favorite outfit for sleeping. 

 

He had not mentioned staying the night and she hadn’t asked. Of course. But, she had grabbed them up in a rush, barely able to fit them in the already crowded bag. She had even managed to snatch her toothbrush without Missy noticing as her friend toweled her hair in the steamy bathroom. She also had a date tonight. 

 

“Yes,” she replied, voice steadier than she thought possible, considering that she felt an awful lot like her bones had evaporated. 

 

He flashed a grin, nodding, as he pushed himself up from the bench. 

 

Tormund threw his head back with a great ‘woop’. “Is it time for the show?” he asked as he stood excitedly, helping Brienne to step over the bench, just as Jon was doing for Dany. 

 

With many shouts of anticipation and some good-natured insults, the benches were pushed back and the crowd all filtered out into the yard.

 

+++

 

She sat before the fire, warm and so very  _ happy _ .

 

Well, not as happy as she  _ could _ be, considering she had barely contained herself from jumping on Jon the moment he finished resoundly defeating his very surly sister after a game of ‘cans’. 

 

Jon had been, unfortunately for her (or perhaps most fortunately), swept away in a tide of back-clapping, slightly drunken comrades to take a ‘victory shot’ of some very fine bourbon. Arya had rolled her eyes, even as Gendry trailed behind her, looking as though he stood before some sort of cowgirl goddess. Dany had kept her distance, not wanting to sully this obviously very old family tradition, but was grabbed up by Yara as they reached the kitchen, thrusting a shot glass into her hand. 

 

Afterwards, red-cheeked and bright-eyed and clearly a bit tipsy, a bit brave, he had swept her up into his arms and kissed her to a deafening chorus of many whoops and cheers. She had been so shocked she nearly fainted, unable to really return the gesture before he broke away from her, beaming. 

 

The rag-tag crew had all marched into the night-dark yard, setting upon the dry brambles and branches that had been piled into the fire pit with much drunken relish. 

 

And now, she watched as Jon laughed and smoked with Robb, Yara, Theon, and Gendry from across the fire. Her eyes roamed, catching sight of Oberyn sitting cross-legged on the grass, strumming his guitar and singing a beautiful ballad in Spanish. Pod and Rickon cheered as Brienne defeated Tormund in a rousing arm wrestling match. Cat and her strange sister, Lysa, sat quietly on the deck, a bottle of sherry between them on the hastily cleared table. Dishes were for another day. 

 

She felt a flush of gratitude, being permitted here… in this place he called home, with these people he called family… even if Cat had proven to be more terrible than she had originally estimated. 

 

But something also squirmed within her, a bit. Something like… dread, or maybe shame. What would she do if she had to leave? If everything came crashing down around her like a landslide? She had left many a podunk town in her rearview with nary a thought, but the idea of doing the same to this place… to  _ him _ … she didn’t know whether to scream or cry.

 

She looked up as Sansa and Arya came to sit next to her on the bench, looking much more sober and collected than anyone else. “Hanging in there?” Sansa inquired as she passed her a cigarette without asking if she wanted one. 

 

Dany took it, leaning toward the lit match Sansa held out for her. “Yeah,” she replied emphatically. “I really am.”

 

“Good,” Arya said as she sat down on her other side, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I’d be scared shitless.”

 

Dany snorted. “I didn’t think you were scared of much of anything.”

 

“She hates spiders,” Sansa said with a smile. “She screams like a girl whenever she sees one.” 

 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I  _ am _ a girl,” Arya quipped dryly. 

 

Sansa and Dany laughed before a small, comfortable silence. “Everyone has been very nice,” Dany offered. “This is quite a home you have here-- I bet you’re glad things will be going back to normal.” 

 

“Yeah,” Sansa sighed, looking into the fire. “At least until September.”

 

“What happens in September?” Dany asked.

 

“Round up,” Arya answered. “A month on the trail.”

 

Dany couldn’t help but feel her heart sink at that, thinking of another month without him… before she inwardly shook herself. September was well away. This whole…  _ thing _ between her and Jon could very well have run its course by then. Or she would have to high-tail it out of here. The signs were not good for either. “Damn,” she said with a shake of her head, “And then calving all over again?”

 

“Calving is every other year,” Sansa explained, turning her face back towards her, a grin ghosting her lips, wicked and conspiratorial. “You won’t have to give up Jon next winter.” 

 

Dany blushed, picking at the label of her bottle of water. Of those of drinking age, only she and Jon had opted for water after shots were had. She wondered if it were that obvious. 

 

Sansa laughed in the face of Dany’s seeming temporary muteness. Arya knocked her boot into Dany’s All Stars. “Our brother really likes you, you know.” 

 

Dany kept her eyes away, now fully mortified, a damning blush warming her cheeks that had little to do with the blaze of the fire. She cleared her throat under the heat of the two women’s gaze, clearly waiting for a response. “I like him, too,” she managed, voice cracking only a bit. 

 

Arya took a swig from her beer. “That’s good to hear,” she said with a grin. “Else we’d have to do something drastic.”

 

Sansa rolled her eyes at her sister. “God, Arya, do you have to?”

 

“Yes,” she protested. “She has to know that I have a shovel and lots of land to hide a body.”

 

“Well, that’s… macabre,” Dany said with a derisive laugh. 

 

“Don’t you want her to  _ like _ you, Arya?” Sansa asked. 

 

Arya was just opening her mouth to reply when Jon arrived, much to Dany’s immense relief. “Is Arya giving you the shovel talk?” he asked her with a knowing frown.

 

“I’m just looking out for you,” Arya said, shrugging. “You’re my brother. I get protective.” 

 

“And I am forever in your debt, protecting me from this ferocious beast,” he said, waving a hand at Dany with a laugh. He shook his head, stepping closer to her. “I’m sorry for my family.”

 

She smiled, trying not to notice how pleased she was to see him. “It’s fine.”

 

“She took it well enough,” Arya offered with a bracing slap to her shoulder. 

 

Jon looked between both his sisters, coughing in a pointed sort of way. “Can, uh, we get some time alone? Want to talk to Dany a bit.” 

 

Arya and Sansa both exchanged looks before rising to their feet and wandering off, throwing skeptical glances at them from over their shoulders. Dany, in the meantime, felt a little anxious, his request appearing to signal something significant. 

 

But, he simply stood before her silently for a moment, mouth upturned, eyes so very soft and perhaps a bit  _ happy _ .

 

“So,” she began, breaking the thickening tension. “What is it that you wanted to talk about?”

 

His grin widened as he held out his hand. She took it slowly, confused, as she came to her feet. He led her away from the fire, heading to the gate that they had entered from. “It’s not like they won’t notice, but it was worth a shot,” he finally mumbled, glancing back to the fire. 

 

She followed his gaze and indeed there were at least four pairs of eyes turned toward their retreating forms. Realization hit her and she gripped his hand tighter, both to steady herself and to assure him. 

 

He laughed quietly, his teeth flashing in the whitewash of the moon. She felt very queer then, something constricting her heart, something warming her insides until she thought she would up and melt away. 

 

She leaned her head on his shoulder as they stepped through the gate. 

 

+++ 

 

_ “You came and lay a cold compress upon the mess I’m in; _

_ threw the windows wide, and cried amen amen amen. _

_ The whole world stopped to hear you hollering. _

_ And you looked down, and saw, now, what was happening: _

 

_ “The lines are fading in my kingdom _

_ (though I have never known the way to border them in); _

_ so the muddy mouths of baboons and sows, and the grouse, and the horse, and the hen _

_ grope at the gate of the looming lake that was once a tidy pen. _

_ And the mail is late, and the great estates are not lit from within. _

_ The talk in town’s becoming downright sickening.” _

 

_ \--  _ “Emily” Joanna Newsom

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is late. Yeah, I'm really sorry about it. But alas, life is life and it sometimes does stuff that prevents me from pursuing my insane passions.
> 
> Hope you liked my inclusion of the Stark family's weird winter blood into a modern AU. Smut and much pillow talk and all of that fun shit next chapter I promise.
> 
> As always, thank you to the Tarts for their unending support and persistent egging on. And [Justwanderingneverlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/pseuds/justwanderingneverlost/works?fandom_id=116304) for that amazing moodbaord!<3 
> 
> And thank you especially to [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal) for her careful once-over. :) 
> 
> Comments are always appreciated and are my sustenance to write.


	9. SPRING, VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had of course imagined this moment, had pondered and idled, every scenario as unique (and perhaps unlikely) as the last. She had always passively assumed that Jon would be somewhat of a gentle lover, someone who could satisfy her, but perhaps not meet the level of savagery she preferred. She had yet to find such a lover, so such a mild disappointment (especially considering the rest of him) would not be too difficult to shoulder. 
> 
> She had not considered that something of a wolf resided within him, that a hot bed of coals could be kindled and stoked when warranted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strap in, y'all.

  
  


She slid her hands under his shirt as he pulled back on the reins, coming to a halt before the stable doors. 

 

They had barely made it out of the main stable at the house. She had vainly tried to distract herself as she stood in the empty stall waiting for him to return from the runyard with his horse. She had texted Gendry, telling him not worry about driving her home-- if he was even planning on going back to Olenna’s tonight. She seriously doubted it. 

 

She had taken Jon by surprise, showing off a bit, as she had not allowed herself during their first ride together. She had taken the lead line from him as he walked to the stable door and deftly pulled Ghost into the stall before she began running a bristled brush over his dusty coat. Jon had stood back, watching her with dark and hungry eyes as she swung the heavy saddle over Ghost’s back, had cinched up the girth, fed him his bridle with ease. She needed to do this, for more reasons than one. So that he may see her true self, the side she had tried to hide from him not a few weeks before. 

 

It definitely had the desired effect, for when she had finished her task, she turned back to him and he had her in his arms within one long stride. It had been a proper,  _ maddening  _ kiss, with open mouths and shared moans and roaming hands. She had been near to begging him to just have her right there against the stall wall. A literal roll in the hay. 

 

But he had tore himself away and lifted her up by the waist, placing her behind the saddle in a move so swift and dizzying she yelped in shock. 

 

Robbed of her fun, she had decided to torment him on the thankfully brief ride to his cabin. She had nipped at his neck and ran her hands over the firm flesh of his back and chest. He had moved very little, trying to pay attention to where they were going, but she had felt the rumble of his pleased groans through her chest, pressed to his back. 

 

He dismounted, reaching up to her and helping her slide from Ghost’s back. Much to her dismay, he released her immediately, turning to his horse and walking him into the darkened stable. She stood just outside the stable doors, tense and trembling with want, watching as he hastily undid the buckles of the bridle and saddle within the moonwashed shadows. He pushed Ghost into his stall and then practically threw the saddle and bridle into the tack room. Dany smirked, knowing full well that such treatment of tack would normally be unthinkable. 

 

He grabbed up her hand, never slowing in his pace as he marched up the hill. 

 

When they reached the darkened doorstep and stepped into the night-filled cabin (no fumbling for keys-- no need to lock up out here), he spun her around so that her back pressed against the cool wood of the door, and captured her astonished breath in his mouth. 

 

Her fingers ran through his hair, flicking away the damned hair tie that kept his beautiful curls restrained. He fed her a moan, hitching her leg up. She got the idea and locked both her ankles together at the small of his back. His palms grazed hot and hungry over her thighs, her ass. The bramble of his beard burned sweetly on her skin as they drank from each other.

 

He pulled away, and she nearly cursed in frustration, lips chasing his own as he leaned his hips back, lowering her slowly to the ground. He was looking at her with an intensity she did not know quite what to do with. All she could think of was how they were still very much clothed, and they had been in his house a full two minutes, by her estimation. 

 

“You’re sure?” he breathed, voice like a rockslide. 

 

She nearly laughed, but bit it back, opting to go for his neck, where she could just see the pulse pounding. She grabbed at him through his jeans, relishing in the heat and hardness of him. He groaned, so loud she let out a pleased chuff. He pushed her hand away, tangling her fingers with his own and pulling her to the little ladder in the corner. 

 

She stepped up carefully, unsure of the steadiness of her knees, when she halted— a hand pushed through the fork of her legs, two fingers pressing the zipper of her jeans onto the seam of her. She hissed out a breath as he growled from behind her, clearly pleased with the searing heat he found there. She had been soaking wet since the stable, after all. He leaned his body over her, looming, biting the junction of her neck and shoulder so hard she cried out. 

 

He pulled back immediately. “Sorry--”

 

“No,” she panted, looking back at him from over her shoulder. “I love it.”

 

His eyes, already blown and black with desire, flickered with a light so feral she couldn’t help the tiny moan that escaped her. 

 

He urged her on with a nod of his head and she went, legs watery and hands clumsy upon the rungs. 

 

He was on her as soon as he pulled himself up from the trap door, eyes like a thunderhead, hands delving under her tee, under her bra, thumbs finding her nipples, rough and sweet. 

 

She had of course imagined this moment, had pondered and idled, every scenario as unique (and perhaps unlikely) as the last. She had always passively assumed that Jon would be somewhat of a gentle lover, someone who could satisfy her, but perhaps not meet the level of savagery she preferred. She had yet to find such a lover, so such a mild disappointment (especially considering the rest of him) would not be too difficult to shoulder. 

 

She had not considered that something of a wolf resided within him, that a hot bed of coals could be kindled and stoked when warranted. 

 

This realization hit her like a bludgeon. She felt a bit dizzy and she clung to his shoulders, broad and hard and feeling so delicious under her raking nails. She was already reaching a fever pitch, and they had yet to remove a single piece of clothing besides their shoes. 

 

She growled, yanking at the hem of his shirt, desperate to feel the heat of his skin. This time, he acquiesced, lifting his arms and helping her to pull the offensive material over his head. She ran her palms over the planes of his chest, eager and greedy, taking in his pale form, beautiful and sculpted within the star-bright splash of moonlight shafting in from the window. She leaned closer to lick at the tempting contour of his clavicle. 

 

While she was busy tasting every inch of skin she could find, he undid the button of her jeans, pushed the fly unzipped, and shoved his hands under the waistband to knead at her ass with a pleased rumble that vibrated through her in the most delicious way. 

 

She was losing her head fast. She needed this, needed  _ him _ more than anything. She felt like some primal creature, who only lived from moment to moment, only needing and wanting and taking. 

 

She fumbled with his fly, catching his earlobe with her teeth as he pushed her pants down to her feet, panties and all. She kicked them away as she finally got his jeans undone, sliding her fingers over the waistband of his boxer briefs, digging her nails into that ass she simply couldn’t wait to see. 

 

He caught up her mouth again, kissing her so thoroughly she couldn’t catch her breath for a moment. He pulled away, but only to gasp in some air and adjust his face so he could take more of her, as if she was the only thing keeping him rooted to the earth.

 

He seared a trail of warmth down her jaw, her neck, stepping her towards the bed. He ran three rough fingers over the seam of her, just firm enough to make her knees nearly buckle. 

 

She gasped against his collar bone. “ _ Fuck, _ ” he muttered as he parted her lips, dipping a finger in, feeling the heat and damp that he had conjured there. 

 

Seeking revenge for his clever maneuvering that nearly sent her reeling onto the floor, she took hold of him through the thin cotton of his underwear, shameless, and moaned in gratitude at what she found.

 

It was his turn to gasp, breaking away from her to tear her shirt over her head and shove his jeans down his legs. Before she knew quite what was happening, her back was on the cool coverlet, with him looming above her. His eyes roved, sparking and inky black. The rumble in his chest was kicking back up again, his face darkening with a hunger she could not name. 

 

His chest was heaving, something awed and disbelieving in his face. He looked to want to say something, but couldn’t manage to push the words through. 

 

She almost couldn’t survive what he was doing to her. The want for him was  _ elemental _ \-- as if it had always existed, waiting in the ether, burning and boiling like a star until she was strong enough to grasp it. 

 

She sunk her fingers into his hair, winding the glossy threads over her knuckles, pressing her nails into his scalp, bringing him back down to her, no longer able to tolerate the heat of his eyes. He went willingly and the feel of his bare skin against her own, sealed from hip to clavicle, was like an electric pulse. 

 

He lowered his mouth to her nipple, biting softly, experimentally. She pulled at his hair, almost cruel with it, and he took the hint, biting down harder. She cried out, back bowing and he eased off, laving his tongue over the tender flesh as if in apology.

 

This was torment. She lifted her hips, moaning plaintively as he turned his attentions to her other nipple, trying to find some much needed friction. The head of his cock nudged against her, and she gasped, but he shifted away. She threw her head back on the bed with a muttered curse.  

 

She couldn’t be sure, but she could have sworn that he laughed softly against her breast. She didn’t have much time to think on it, however, as he plunged two fingers inside of her, so abrupt it just skirted the edge of painful. He emitted a sound so hungry and guttural at what he found, it sent a jolt right to her cunt.

 

“Jon,” she managed, not really knowing why or for what purpose. He seemed to get it, though, as he dragged his fingers out, then back in, curling them up to press along the front of her, the pad of his thumb finding her clit and brushing lightly, teasingly. The sound that escaped her could only be considered a whimper as he drifted his mouth lower and lower.

 

Something within her snapped, realizing what he intended to do. As lovely as it would be to have him bring her apart with his splendid mouth again, her patience had long since run dry. 

 

She hooked a hand under his arm, dragging him up, catching his shocked gasp within her mouth. She reached down, grabbing hold of him again, though this time without the encumbrance of cloth. She hissed in pleasure at the feel of him, hot and hard and filling her palm. He ripped his mouth away, groaning into her jaw. 

 

“Condom,” she rasped, stroking him luxuriously, root to tip. 

 

He nodded against her, addled and enraptured. He took a moment to gather his composure, before leaning away from her to rummage in the bedside drawer. 

 

He pulled out the desired object and handed it to her without question. Her body responded in a way that almost scared her— she leaned up from the bed and had her thighs bracketed on either side of his hips before he could ask the question that was obviously hanging in his gaze. 

 

She took the little envelope from his fingers and ripped it open with her teeth, before reaching back, stroking him again and loving it so much she moaned, closing her eyes in relish. She felt his hips twitch beneath her and she relented, rolling the condom deftly over the length of him in one, swift movement. 

 

His hands, white-knuckled on her hips, loosened tellingly, giving her control and she loved it so much she wanted to laugh. She leaned down, her whole body draped over him like a hungry snake. His hands moved up and down her sides, leaving her flesh rippling with heat in their wake. She snatched his mouth up again, taking his blessing of a bottom lip between her teeth, and slid down on his cock.   
  
He hissed, gasped, and she moaned into his shoulder as his heat seared into her like a brand. She moved her hips after a moment, pleasure ricocheting through her like gunfire. She built up a rhythm, an engine revving up in her belly. She brought her head up, somehow, to look at him and his eyes sparked like spitfire, drinking her in greedily. She slowed down a bit, teasing him, circling her hips, biting hard on his collarbone. His groans seeped into her jaw as his mouth raised a trail of bruises over the line of her neck.   
  


His hands came to her pelvis, lifting her ever so, changing the angle so that he was so fully lost within her she felt like they may never truly be unmoored from one another. She threw her head back with a strangled breath, nails digging into the white planes of his chest.

  
She was swiftly unspooling, brain buzzing, swirling in dopamine and animal desire. She lowered her head, pressed her brow against his temple, bit the top of his ear, whispered raggedly, "Fuck me."   
  
At first, he simply dug his fingers into her ass, a breathless  _ 'fuck' _ escaping his lips. 

 

He finally surged upwards, bringing her with him. She scratched her nails down his back, trailing angry red lines over the ripples of his back. He shivered, bringing his legs up a bit to get leverage, holding her in his lap with sturdy arms. They were pressed together fully and he found her mouth again as he moved his hips against her own. He filled his palms with her ass and lifted her up and down on him. The movements were small, torturous, incredible. 

 

Her cries were coming in a steady stream now, made ragged with a sweet pain. She crashed her mouth onto his, desperate for him to feel just one fraction of what he was doing to her.

 

She was suddenly pressed into the blankets, the seal of his mouth never breaking. She hooked her feet at the small of his back, wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she was able, the loss of his heat almost unbearable. His hips took on a different rhythm, slow and deliberate, a snap at the end that filled her ears with a filthy ‘smack’ that made her head swirl with lust.

 

He was panting now, groans bubbling up in his throat and she knew he was close. She lifted her hips to meet him, to aid him, and that was when she felt it, the rough edge within her, a tightening low in her belly.

 

His hand delved under the small of her back, cupped her ass, brought it up to tilt her hips higher. Stars burst behind her lids and she was left gasping. She cried into the night, shaking apart around him, clutching him like a lifeline as her orgasm ripped through her like a wildfire.

 

He swallowed up her cries with his tongue, pushing hard into her before following her over that blinding cliff with a stuttering, strangled breath. 

 

She was still pulsing around him, sore and replete. His weight was heavy upon her, but it felt so sweet she could not begin to protest. She carded her fingers over the back of his sweaty neck and into his hair, holding onto him like the precious thing he was.

 

They lay there a long while, breaths steadying like a ship after a storm, languishing in what had just happened. “Mm,” he finally mumbled, “alright?”

 

She smiled against the firm muscle of his shoulder, pleased and amused all at once. “Yeah,” she replied, breath still heavy, blood still swirling. “Yeah… you?”

 

He hummed, the feeling of it shockingly delightful. “Better than I’ve been in a while.”

 

Something queer and powerful lurched in her chest at that, but she didn’t quite know what to with it, her brain still so fogged with dopamine and oxytocin. She felt utterly undone, shaken to the roots by what had just happened. What the fuck was she going to do now?

 

“A shower would be nice,” she said instead, distracting herself by focusing on her sweat-slicked skin and smoke-filled hair. 

 

She tried not to enjoy his rumble of laughter too much. He turned his head, kissing her under her jaw. “Not meant for two, unfortunately.”

 

She lifted her head, turning to look him in the face. There was a softness behind his black eyes, catching in the moonlight like the surface of a night dark river. She felt her throat closing up fast. “We could make do,” she suggested weakly. She had been in that sorry excuse for a shower not a few weeks before. She knew exactly how cramped it was. 

 

He huffed, shaking his head. “When there is a will, there’s a way, but not when physics says otherwise.” He stroked her wild hair back from her face, giving her an adoring smile that only heightened her thrill and her foreboding. “No, you go first. I’ll make us some coffee.”

 

She managed to smile, the thought of coffee too pleasant to deny. “As you wish, old man.”

 

He chuckled. “It’s been awhile, but I hope it wasn’t  _ that  _ bad.”

 

She laughed, shaking her head. “No, no... you’re no old man in bed, I can assure you.”

 

“Shower,” he said, rolling off her reluctantly. “And coffee.”

 

“Fine,” she sighed, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and standing on wobbly legs. She swayed, holding her arms out for balance. 

 

He scooted toward her, his shit-eating grin as infuriating as it was endearing to her. He reached his hands out, placing them lightly on her hips. “Alright there?”

 

She shook her head, feigning outrage as she crouched with some difficulty to gather up her clothes. “Don’t pretend you aren’t proud of yourself.”

 

He laughed and leaned down to pick up his tee from the floor and pulled it back over his head. “Least I could do.” He stood and stretched so luxuriously she could not help her roving eyes, pausing lavisciously on his still-stiff cock bobbing between his legs. He walked to the dresser and pulled out a fresh pair of boxer briefs. “Shower,” he instructed, pointing to the bathroom. 

 

“I’m not so sure I’m done with you yet,” she replied silkily, striding toward him with a considerable sway to her hips and wrapping her arms around his neck. 

 

He kissed her firmly, his hands roaming, and just like that, she was ignited anew.

 

But he had other plans. “That’s good to know,” he said with a tiny grin. “I’m not done with you either.” He looked at her questioningly, maybe a bit sheepish. “Do you have to work tomorrow?”

 

She bit her lip, nodding, cursing herself for not making arrangements earlier. For being foolish enough to think she wouldn’t try to stay here as long as she could. “Not until four, though,”

 

He smiled. “Good.” He slapped her hard on the ass, the act so sudden and uncharacteristic she yelped in shock. “Now off with you, you’re much too distracting.”

 

“Speak for yourself,” she quipped, sauntering to the bathroom as he huffed, climbing down the ladder with a shake of his head. 

 

+++ 

 

The water sluiced over her shoulders, running in little rivers over the crests of her nails. The steam rose like a storm, the racket of the little fan in the ceiling effectively killing any peace she could find within the lull of rushing water.

 

How could she do this? 

 

She leaned her head against the tile, biting her lip hard, the pain grounding her, trying to scatter the thoughts plaguing her like a swarm of gnats. She ran her hands over her shoulders, the ache within them still sweet, still telling. 

 

She had meant to talk to him first. To make sure he knew what she was, where she’d been… what she’d _ done _ . But she had fallen into his bed as easy as a stone pushed from a hill, had let him drink from her mouth like a spring, press his skin into her own, hot as an ember, burning to the core of her until she would never hope to scrub his mark from her. 

 

The very reprehensible fact that although she had promised him to be more honest, more open-- and had so far betrayed that promise made her sick. But it was nothing compared to the very real, extremely terrifying knowledge that she was feeling these things in the first place. 

 

She was scared shitless. Scared that if she was truly honest with him he’d drop her off at Olenna’s and never speak to her again. Scared that he would look at her with those big, black eyes and bring her into his chest and tell her everything was going to be alright. Scared that he would continue to be everything that he was and it would all go up in smoke before she could work up the courage to reach out and take it. 

 

Sometimes, she almost wished her brother would just make his move. Get it over with. It hurt less to rip a bandage off, swift and fast, rather than pick at it inch by inch, after all. 

 

She sighed, her heart a cumbersome thing, and she shut the water off.

 

+++ 

 

He was at the kitchen counter in a tee and boxer briefs, leaning on his elbows as he flipped idly through a magazine with a coffee mug steaming beside him. She thought it a strange, charming, thoroughly Jon Snow sight-- most would be bent to their phone, their face underlit by blue light. He had put on a record, something unrecognizable with spacey keyboards and pulsing high-hats. A woman’s sultry voice crooned at them through the soft cloud of sound.

 

The sight of him, bed-rumpled and kiss-bruised and utterly content with the world, almost sent her over the edge.

 

“Hey,” he said with a quick glance up at her. “Good shower?”

 

“Fine,” she managed, “but that fan needs some work.”

 

He laughed quietly, snapping the magazine shut. “Yeah, it’s a bit noisy.” He reached behind him, proffering a steaming mug of her own. 

 

She took it, her smile of thanks feeling odd on her face. She looked down at it, noticing the perfect shade of blonde for her tastes. 

 

“Storm’s coming,” he said. “I like to sit out on the porch sometimes, watch it pass over. Thought we could… Dany? Shit, Dany are you okay?”

 

She swiped at her eyes, shaking her head, chest hitching. “Nothing. It’s fine.”

 

Jon stepped closer to her, hands on her shoulders, looking her over, his eyes telling her that he very much did not believe her. 

 

“C’mon,” he rumbled, taking her by the elbow and walking her slowly to the front of the cabin. The spring in the screen door creaked noisily and before she knew it she was seated in one of the cheap plastic chairs on the porch, the smell of ozone in her nose and the cool, angry slap of wind on her cheeks. “Take a deep breath,” he told her, his voice sounding from far away for some reason. 

 

She did as he said and it was like she had tossed out an anchor and it had snagged on a reef, snapping her back from a tempest. “There you are, cowgirl.”

 

The sound of his endearment broke her open like a bad stitch. She gasped, trying her damndest to quell the tears that threatened. Damn it all… this was supposed to be such a perfect night. 

 

Thunder rumbled somewhere to the south and he knelt before her, hands stroking up and down her bare thighs, eyes slanted in worry. “What’s going on?”

 

She shook her head, sniffing, turning her eyes away from the warmth of his own to glimpse a shock of purple, infernal light stutter in the vault of cloud above them. She had the wild thought to beg him to take her home, to fold her up in the cab of his truck and whisk her away so she could bury her face in her pillow that definitely did not smell like him and forget she ever did this. “I was married once,” is what came out instead, the words like thorns in her mouth-- excruciating coming up, but exquisite once they were spit out. “I should have told you, I’m sorry--” 

 

“Hey,” he said, voice like a balm, “hey-- it’s fine.” 

 

She shook her head again, the tears running freely now. “Jon, there’s so much-- you don’t know. It’s not fair. You don’t deserve--”

 

He interrupted her with a thumb to her lips. She was shocked to find a little smile on his lips. “Let me get our coffee. Then we can talk about whatever you want, eh?”

 

He rose to his feet, squeezing her knee, before stepping back inside. She sat, suddenly blank and rudderless, his rock-steady optimism knocking her askew. She looked back out to the dark horizon, the world a void. There was a distant whicker from the stable, the rustle of a hare diving for shelter, and then the first, tin-can strikes of rain on the metal of the roof above her. 

 

He returned, handing her her mug. She wrapped her fingers around it, the heat and the smell bringing her back to her senses even more. He pulled a tissue from the little breast pocket on his shirt. She took it with a smile of thanks and wiped at her wet, sticky face and dabbed at her nose. 

 

“Need a proper rain,” Jon said as he took his seat beside her, feet kicked out and slouched easily in the chair with his mug resting on his knee. “So…” he began, up-turning a palm on the arm of his chair. “You were married.”

 

She licked her lips, steeling herself to walk headlong into the frothing surf. The rain was coming in earnest now. She wasn’t sure if he would even be able to hear her over the din. Lightning whited out the sky, turning his form into a pearly phosphene in her eyes. “Widowed, more accurately.”

 

He looked down into his mug, his face falling. He glanced back up at her and nodded, telling her he knew-- he knew the pain of losing someone you loved. But he  _ didn’t _ know. Not even a little bit. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It wasn’t a happy marriage,” she assured softly, sniffing. She looked to the weathered planks beneath her, the ends of them starting to shine with the mist whipping up from the deluge. “It was… a blessing, becoming a widow.”

 

She did not know how he would respond to such an admission. How such a callous thought would be carried by such a noble heart, but he pulled in a breath, as if he had been kicked. His eyes were pinpricks in the dark, the yellow porch light girding him in gold. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said again. The words were the same, but the meaning was wholly different. “I’m sorry... that that happened to you.”

 

She shook her head, looking down to her mug, scratching a thumbnail over the lip of it. “I should have told you weeks ago.”

 

She saw his throat work, words of assurance and ambivalence rising within him, but unable to escape his mouth. He was ever a creature of honesty, of cutting through the bullshit and the feeble platitudes to get to the core of it. She told herself she would have hated it if he had offered her peace in the face of her unforgivable omission, but this thought did not make the pain forming in his eyes any easier to bear. 

 

He cleared his throat, waiting for a peal of thunder to rumble away. “I was going to marry Ygritte.”

 

The words themselves were not all that surprising. She had passively assumed as much— something about Jon always struck her as fiercely loyal. Such a characteristic could only translate so many ways when it came to committed relationships. But the  _ way _ he said it… the time he had chosen to confirm her suspicions… he was tossing her a lifeline and she was too weak and clumsy to know what to do with it. 

 

He looked at her sadly before staring back out into the stormy night. “We were never officially engaged— she died before I could make that happen.”

 

He was offering this to her— an eye for an eye, one sin to another. She could not conceive of the pain, the bravery it took for him to walk back into those fires hidden in his past and come out again with an olive branch. “Oh,  _ Jon _ ,” was all she could possibly say. 

 

“My scars,” he continued, voice a wrecked thing, “they remind me… I survived, and she did not.”

 

_ An accident on the trail, I’m afraid. Poor boy blames himself.  _

 

She suddenly had the odd, powerful urge to rush to the edge of the porch and vomit as Olenna’s words echoed cruelly in her head. She closed her eyes tight, tears once again heating her eyes, a trapped scream clawing at her throat. She may have been beaten and bloodied, raped and betrayed, but his troubles were made of a different sort of anguish. One that she could not fully fathom and did not know if she ever could. She felt something like  _ shame _ burn in her belly at that, thinking to herself that she would never be what he needed, that she was a such a damned fool for doing this, for being here--

 

“Hey.” His voice cracked through the storm of her thoughts like a sunbeam. He had scooted his chair closer, had taken her mug from her loose fingers and placed it on the planks beside his own at their feet. He brushed the rough callus of his thumb over the tracks of tears on her cheeks. 

 

She took in a quaking breath, words snaring and catching in her throat. “It wasn’t your fault,” is what came from her mouth without her really meaning to. She grabbed the hand at her cheek with both her own, squeezing hard to make certain the words settled in. “Whatever happened, Jon— it’s not your fault.”

 

He let out a great breath of relief, as if he had just thrown off a yoke he had been wrangling with for far too long, and she had been the one to hand him the hammer to see it done. He had carried a dark secret within him, too, had fretted over her potential rejection for weeks. 

 

She felt comforted, knowing they were both shedding their armor, though her penance was far from complete. 

 

He leaned in, kissed her so fiercely she thought he may snatch the very blood from her veins, to gather it up and keep her for himself beneath his bones. It was all she could do bring her hands to his face to pull him closer, closer— never near enough. 

 

Her blood was rushing in her ears, the air stuttering in her lungs as his hands slid over whatever parts of her they could find. It was an awkward affair, as they were separated by the arms of their respective chairs. He growled in frustration. “C’mere.”

 

She nearly did--  _ god _ , she wanted to-- but she pulled herself back from his embrace, finally heeding all those voices she had ignored before. 

 

He blinked at her, confused, maybe a bit hurt. The storm was ratcheting up. She thought they should go in, but the savagery of it was somehow comforting, oddly bracing and powerful. 

 

She decided levity was the best course. “As much as I would love to fuck you right here on this porch, old man, I haven’t finished with my confession.” 

 

He opened his mouth to protest, perhaps to explain the very simple alternative— fuck first, talk later— before he realized that was perhaps precisely what she was aiming to avoid: not making the same mistake twice. He shut his mouth with a tired sigh and nodded. “Okay.”

 

She sagged in quiet relief. “I’m sorry, Jon, but I have to make this right.”

 

“I get it,” he conceded, though his voice was tight with applied patience. He let out another heavy breath. “Want to smoke about it?” he offered with a weak smile. 

 

She smiled back and nodded. “That would be nice, I think.”

 

He lifted himself from his chair, gathering up the forgotten mugs of coffee, before stepping back into the house to gather his smokes and lighter. 

 

He emerged some time later, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and Binx curled in his arms. “He wanted to say hello,” he said as he deposited the cat into her lap. 

 

She felt warmth bleed through her to the very roots of her hair as she stroked her fingers between Binx’s ears. By his sleepy eyes and large yawn, she knew that the cat had not wanted to say hello— he had most certainly been interrupted from a nap. Binx’s very friendly nature was being craftily utilized by the ever-thoughtful man now sitting beside her. 

 

“Hey there, buddy,” she whispered to Binx, scratching him under his chin. He purred happily, closing his eyes before circling her lap at least three times and finally settling down with a little sigh. 

 

“So,” Jon said as he passed her a lit cigarette. He pulled one out for himself, lighting it and taking a drag. Clearly he assumed she would need a whole one or three. 

 

She took a pull, careful to exhale away from the sleeping cat in her lap. “I come from a very wealthy family, Jon— or at least they were at one time.”

 

“Horse racing,” he replied emphatically. At her bewildered stare he waved a hand in dismissal. “Kentucky, New York, those nice boots, that dress you wore to Olenna’s birthday. Had my suspicions since that night, but after our… ride and our picnic, I was pretty certain. Plus, I  _ did _ tell you I have broadband.”

 

She blinked, her blood running cold. “You went snooping on me?” 

 

“Just the last name. I was too curious after you told me. I’m sorry, Dany— I shouldn’t have done it.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “But I know you did the same on me. Didn’t seem too surprised when a dead girlfriend was mentioned at the party.” He shrugged. “I think it’s natural… wanting to know more about the person you’re interested in.”

 

She flushed. She  _ had _ asked Olenna about him, weeks ago now, and Olenna had spilled the beans with little provocation. “Fair enough,” she said tightly. “Anything else you know about me?”

 

He shook his head with a laugh. “Only that your family gives their horses some strange names.”

 

She let out a breath of relief, though she still felt a bit off-kilter. And maybe just a  _ smidge _ disappointed— it would’ve made things a lot easier, after all, if he knew everything already. 

 

“My father died when I was nineteen,” she began, scratching Binx around the ears. He began purring anew. “I was very happily out of the house and going to school in New York. But without my mother  _ or _ father, I decided to go home and help my brother.”

 

“Just the one brother?”

 

She nodded. “Unfortunately,” she said within a sigh. “Would’ve been nice to have a sibling who wasn’t so awful.”

 

Jon regarded her sympathetically. That was a trouble he definitely could not relate to. “I’m sorry, Dany.” He flicked his cigarette into a dented spitoon across from him as if he had done it thousands of times before. “What were you helping this awful brother with?”

 

She shook her head, the memories that she had carefully locked away now sneaking out of their hiding places, one by one. “My father’s business was much more than just the horse race game. It was massive and complicated— real estate, natural gas, newspapers… he owned a shoe company at one point, a board game factory… it was a fucking mess.” She took another long drag of her cigarette. “ _ And _ this mess was also broke, we came to find.”

 

“So is that why you’re out here?” he asked, “Had to sell everything off and now you’re trying to find your way?”

 

She smiled a little at his phrasing. “That’s one way to look at it, I guess.” 

 

She shifted in her chair, trying to dispose of her cigarette butt without disturbing the cat curled in her lap. Jon helped her out, taking it for her and tossing it in the spitoon. 

 

“My brother has always been vain… petulant. Very entitled and with a bad temper-- courtesy of my dear father. He would never accept the life of a pauper. In his mind, he was a fucking prince, and princes don’t just tear down their castles and declare bankruptcy.” 

 

Jon snorted and she managed a smile. This was turning out to be easier than anticipated. “But we had to do  _ something _ … do you know anything about Bahrain?” Jon blinked at her disbelievingly, as if it were a trick question. “Bahrain is a tiny little island nation in the Persian Gulf. It’s fabulously wealthy and fabulously corrupt. And the ruling family, the Khals-- well they love their fine horses.”

 

“So they paid you a visit,” Jon supplied. 

 

She nodded. “Thing was, our horses were not the only thing they were after.” 

 

Jon licked his lips, leaning toward her with his brow stitched together in intense thought. “Are you telling me… that you were married to an  _ actual _ fucking prince?”

 

She bowed her head, picking at a cuticle, watching the rise and fall of Binx’s breathing. “I don’t know if you know this, Jon, but white collar crime is pretty standard-- especially within the Middle Eastern royalty.” She sighed, looking back up at him. “They wanted our business network. They wanted the infrastructure.”

 

“I’m going to assume that it wasn’t because they were interested in owning a board game factory.”

 

She nodded. “It was the solution to all my brother’s problems… even if it meant selling his soul. But they knew they couldn’t just buy us out right-- that would send up too many red flags, send too many noses into their business. At first, my brother suggested a partnership. Unsurprisingly, they declined-- they didn’t trust him as far as they could throw him. And they certainly would never trust me, a woman, although I was effectively running the show there for a bit.”

 

“So your brother offered  _ you _ up like a fucking poker chip?” Jon snarled. 

 

She couldn’t help but smile, however blandly, something young and girlish fluttering in her chest at his outrage on her behalf. “To his credit, he offered himself up first. But the sultan had already arranged pairings for his daughters. So, my brother set his sights on me.” 

 

Jon shook his head, hands clenching on his thighs. “Is this fucking medieval Europe?”

 

She shrugged. “Honestly, Jon, in spheres of extreme wealth-- yes, in a way. Everyone is looking to keep or grow their money… so they make sure their children marry the right people. It’s less overt in America. Parents use manipulation and guilt to nudge their kids into making a match that they approve of. It would have happened to me anyway, no matter how hard I fought it.” She barked a derisive laugh, plucking a cat hair from her shirt. “In a way, I wish Americans would just come out and do the damned thing. Would make it easier.” 

 

“So… what? You had already resigned yourself to this fate?” He shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “Doesn’t seem like something you would do.”

 

She gave him a sharp look. “I was very young, Jon. A different person.” She swallowed, the pain starting to burn itself anew within her. “I was molded my whole life to submit and to obey. I know that seems archaic, and I resisted best I could, but that shit still works against you. Especially when both your parents are dead, your fortune has run dry, and the only person left to you in the world is a greedy snake.” 

 

Jon’s face fell in a vague sort of shame. “I’m sorry, Dany. I know--”

 

“It’s alright,” she assured firmly. “You don’t know— that’s not your fault. It certainly didn’t help that I had developed something of a crush on the sultan’s youngest son at any rate.” She blew a long, steadying breath through her lips. “We were married the following fall, and the deal was done.” 

 

Jon ran his hands over his face as she gave him a moment to gather all of this. They were silent for a long moment, thunder fading in the distance, the rain thinning and slowing into a steady patter. He finally cleared his throat. “How long were you married?”

 

“Three years.” The answer seemed to rock him, his eyes popping open in surprise, but he didn’t respond, instead looking to the planks of the deck. “There was a time when we were happy. Well,  _ I _ was happy… he whisked me away to his palace in Bahrain, and, for a bit there, I thought everything would be alright.”

 

He gave her a dark, knowing look. “What happened?”

 

She stared blankly at her hands, thinking back, trying to decide what to tell him. Sifting through what he really needed to know versus what would just be gratuitous-- or damning. 

 

“He wanted to get me pregnant.” She watched him close his eyes, push his thumbs into the bridge of his nose. “His brothers already had many children. A thing of immense pride in their culture. He wanted to play catch-up.” She sighed heavily, tapping a finger on the arm of her chair. “Turns out, I’m not so good at getting pregnant-- or maybe he’s not so good at impregnating. But either way, the more time passed without him getting what he wanted, the more… unstable he became.” 

 

“Fuck, Dany,” he spat. She closed her eyes, the pain and anguish in the words slicing through her. When she opened them again, he was looking to the rusted roof of the porch, eyes blank and overbright. “I… need a minute.” 

 

She nodded, pulling her lips over her teeth, not really knowing how to process his reaction, not wanting to think of all the things it could or could not mean. He leaned back and pulled his cigarette case from his pocket. He passed her one and lit it for her silently before doing the same for himself. 

 

“Okay,” he said quietly. 

 

“He started to drink, to go to parties and stay out all night,” she continued. “Bahrain is the place where all the rich assholes of the world can gather and do whatever depraved shit they want with little consequence, you see.  _ I _ didn’t know this, of course, but my husband took full advantage.” 

 

She sighed, ashing her cigarette with her index and shifting her legs under Binx, who only emitted a sleepy mewl at the disturbance. 

 

“This went on for over a year, before I finally became desperate enough to reach out to my brother-- I had not talked to him since the wedding. He ran off with his millions to leave me with my captor. But I did not know who else to reach out to. I had a few friends back in the States, but what were they going to do? They were art students, for fuck’s sake. I was in a foreign country I knew nothing about. I-- I didn’t have  _ anyone _ else.” 

 

She took a deep, steadying breath, swiping under her eyes. “And he… came. He came, for what good it was worth. All he really came for was to party and fuck.  _ Sometimes _ , though, he would… sit with me. Let me talk to him. But nothing came of it. The drugs had him so zonked… he had no idea what was going on— not that he would have cared.” 

 

“Dany,” Jon said softly, swallowing hard, “you don’t have to do this.”

 

“I do,” she snapped, the fire returning to her, licking up into her mouth, her eyes. “I’m fucking tired of it, Jon. I’m tired of running and I’m tired of his shadow ruling my life. I’ve been running and running and now I’ve found-- I’ve found something that could be like a--” she couldn’t say the last word, the power to bring it out in the open simply not within her. She swallowed it back down into her belly, closing her eyes and breathing out, trying to gather herself, trying to find her footing again. 

 

“Everywhere I’ve been, I’ve never even  _ tried _ , Jon. I just pulled up the stakes and ran. A car would have never followed me for this long, because within a few days I’d be three states away.” She shook her head furiously. “I’ve been holding back and holding back because I am always thinking-- ‘This’ll be the god damned day. This’ll be the day I wake up in California, or Oregon, or who the fuck knows.’”  

 

Her heart was hammering in her tongue, her stomach falling to her feet, but she looked at him, and made sure her gaze never wavered. “I meant what I said at the brewery, Jon, I can’t seem to shake you and I don’t  _ want  _ to. You deserve to know. You deserved to know weeks ago, but I was too fucking scared to tell you. If I don’t do this now, I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing here.” 

 

He looked reluctant to acquiesce, even after her impassioned entreaty. She knew that it came from a place of gentleness— he didn’t want to see her dash herself upon the rocks if she didn’t need to, but she couldn’t help but feel like this was becoming all too much for him, that he wanted her to stop so she wouldn’t lance through the bubble of happiness they had carelessly languished in. But now that she had started, she couldn’t stop. It was like drawing poison from a wound and she would not survive if it she didn’t get every last drop— even if it meant she bled out. 

 

“One night,” she pushed on, voice hitching, “my husband told me he was going to kill me. It was really the only way to be rid of me, after all. He told me this every night for months.”

 

Jon swore darkly, his eyes flashing in anger. “What about the police?” he protested. “Couldn’t you have gone to them?”

 

She scoffed bitterly at that. “The sultan had the police in his pocket, Jon. And even then... I’m a  _ woman _ .” 

 

She had slid into her favorite defense mechanism-- dismissiveness, but it died in an instant as she looked over at him. He looked thrown, utterly limp and eyes blank as they stared into the night. Dany tried to tamp her fear down, but it was like holding her hands out to stop an oncoming wave. She didn’t really know how to continue, though she had been adamant just moments before to do just that. 

 

“But you got away,” he finally said brokenly, “you got away, but… you’re still not safe.”

 

She nodded slowly, piecing back together her broken resolve. “When Drogo died— my husband,” she clarified, “my brother came to realize that he had never been well-loved by the Khals. They effectively pushed him out when Drogo’s will was executed. The businesses were still left largely to me in name, and my brother, being the degraded addict he was, was all but destitute. He came to me begging for money.” 

 

She bit her lip, shook her head. The thought of Viserys in those dark days was almost too much for her to shoulder. Hollow-eyed and gaunt, with a mean turn to his mouth, spitting insults and throwing anything within reach.

 

“I refused. I thought that if I were to continue to enable him he’d just end up dead within a few months— maybe even a few weeks,” she finally declared after a long pause.

 

“I think that was a good choice,” Jon replied gently. 

 

“It  _ was _ , but when my brother goes begging and doesn’t get what he wants, he starts getting really cruel.” She pulled her lips over her teeth, the subject now nearing the very thing she desperately wanted to avoid. “The circumstances of Drogo’s death were… predictable-- considering what his lifestyle had devolved into over the years. The police ruled it an accidental overdose, though some in his family believed it was me who did it. They lacked the evidence to do anything about it, though, and Viserys knew this. He also knew how unhappy I was, how I often felt unsafe. He threatened to go to the police, to go to the sultan, with all he knew. He  _ knew _ that the embers were there, he just needed to blow on them to make a fire that would burn me up along with it.”

 

“Fucking hell,” Jon spat, running a hand over his face. “But what good would have that done him? He wouldn’t have gotten anything anyway, would he?”

 

She paused, trying to decide how best to tell this last bit of the tale. “He gave me a choice— write a will, or he would go to the sultan. I knew if I wrote that will, I would be effectively signing a death warrant. And it I refused and he made good on his threats, I would be in jail within a week. So I got away.” 

 

Jon bit his lip, his brow puzzled, his mind obviously in a fury. “How long have you been running?”

 

“Three years in September.”

 

He swore under his breath and leaned his elbows on his thighs. “Why is he chasing you? What would he do if he caught you?”

 

She shrugged. “I don’t really know. That’s why I run. That, and the very real fact that my brother is not a ‘forgive and forget’ type of person— especially if the insult wounds both his pride and his pocket.” She shook her head, a defeated sigh passing through her nose. “After what he did to me in Bahrain, the possibilities are endless… and none of them good.”

 

“But the sultan and his family? They aren’t looking for you?”

 

She shook her head. “They owned a minority share in the company, though it was mostly their money being filtered through it. When I returned to the States, I holed up at our house in Kentucky, making arrangements and all that-- preparing for a potential life on the run. A few weeks in, the Khals sent an offer to the company headquarters in New York to effectively buy the company outright. I accepted at once. They were never interested in me or my family. I think they were glad to be rid of me, to be quite honest.”

 

Jon exhaled a great breath, flopping back into his chair again. “Jesus Christ.”

 

She nodded in reluctant agreement, looking down to Binx again, stroking his black fur idly to try to distract her from the heavy silence that enveloped them now. 

 

She heard him shift, the ‘click’ of his cigarette case, the unmistakable sizzle of paper smoldering, but she dared not look over at him just yet. “Here,” he said softly, “you deserve it.” He was holding the lit cigarette out to her patiently, a tiny, reassuring smile on his lips. 

 

She took it silently, still feeling oddly numb and driftless. A ship in a millpond. They were silent again as he lit up one for himself. She watched the gray smoke curl into the night, lit by the garish yellow glow of the little porch light. It was oddly comforting. “Dany,” he began heavily. “How did your husband really die?”

 

She closed her eyes, feeling her insides spiral within her, as if he had struck her square in the chest. She licked her lips, cleared her throat,  _ anything  _ to keep from answering that question she had been terrified he would ask-- worded so delicately and purposefully, she wondered if he already knew the answer. 

 

“It was an overdose,” she replied roughly, her hand trembling as she brought the cigarette to her mouth.  

 

She could tell from his heavy sigh that he was unsatisfied by this answer, but was not about to press her about it. She was so relieved she thought she might faint right there in her chair. 

 

“You have to understand, Jon,” she began again, voice a weak thing, “if… if you still want to do this, if I’m going to have try a real shake at this thing and hold my ground for once, that I don’t know what is going to happen.” She looked over at him, shocked to find that tears were standing in her eyes. “But I  _ do _ know that the chances of him not trying to come after you to get to me is zero to none, and because of that--” her breath hitched and she looked back to the floor of the deck, focusing on a rusted nail that had risen from the wood. “I’d rather not tell you, so you won’t have to lie.” 

 

She watched him as he fiddled with his cigarette, worried at his lip. She tried in vain to puzzle out what he was thinking. He was built like a poem. Somethings about him were easily read, but the core of him, the part that mattered, was harder to decipher. 

 

The silence stretched on, far too long for her to tolerate. She felt something bitter and credulous twist in her belly. He was simply searching for the words to let her down easy, gathering the strength for a long, hard trip back to Olenna’s. She finally broke, unable to withstand it any longer. “Jon... I get it. This is a lot and I don’t blame you for--”

 

“Tell me one thing, Dany,” he cut across her. There was something oddly dangerous in his voice… come crackle of menace that made the hairs stand up on her arms. “Are you in danger?”

 

She blinked, a bit stunned. The way the word ‘danger’ left his mouth made it more than some idle, shadowy hazard of being followed and found out.  “What do you mean?”

 

“Your brother,” he nearly growled, “you said that you thought he was going to kill you, back in Bahrain. What is he liable to do if he gets ahold of you, now?” 

 

She fell still at that, swallowing against the answer. Truth was, she wasn’t so sure that Viserys had the stones to do it-- at least not himself. He had plenty of shady, unscrupulous connections from his time in the gambling dens and the drug circles that would do it for him for the right price. He may have been broke when she left him, but she knew he still had a small trust fund and more than enough wit and wile to make some illicit cash. 

 

Jon ran his hand over his mouth, looking as if the words caused him physical pain. “If he gets to you, Dany, and I’m not there… if he does what I think he will, that is something I need to know.”

 

“Why?” she asked brokenly.

 

“Because if he does I’ll kill him.” His eyes sparked with promise, a ferocious line to his mouth. “Because if I lose you like that, Dany-- that’s it. I’m a goner. I can’t survive that a second time around.” She took in a sharp inhale, barely able to take in all the dangerous things his eyes were holding, the perilous meaning residing beneath his words. “And if I’m at risk of becoming a murderer, that is a risk I’m willing to take, but I need to know. I need to prepare myself.”

 

Her mouth was dry as a bone, her hands suddenly gone numb and tingly, her breath catching in her lungs like a bad gear. Her mind was racing, swirling so fast she didn’t know what she might pluck from the tempest. 

 

He looked her up and down, reading something within her she was not sure of herself. His eyes fell and a long breath left him. He nodded, already knowing her well enough to understand that she would not look him in the eyes and tell him ‘yes, my brother might do it’. She would not make him a killer with her blessing. It was not a condemnation, it was a simple and strategic non-answer he somehow knew she needed to take-- or she’d never forgive herself. Laying such a burden upon him would be a blight she would carry for the rest of her days.

 

She felt a sudden and shocking stab of…  _ resentment _ then… almost furious at how well he had her figured out, at how his scent was like a drug, how being with him felt more right than anything she had done in years and years. The anger was gone as quickly as it came, the spark snuffed out by everything else whirling in her heart. 

 

He cleared his throat and shifted closer to her. “You said that you’ve had to run. That’s how you’ve survived all these years.” 

 

She somehow gathered the wherewithal to look up at him, and she really wished that she hadn’t, the pain and earnestness spilling from his eyes and into her too heavy to hold. 

 

His hand came up to cradle her jaw. “I’d rather you run, Dany... if it means--”

 

“ _ No _ ,” she gritted out, pressing her fingers into the bones of his wrist. “When you’re alone, there’s no reason to stay, there’s no alternative but to run.” She gasped, shook her head, stoked her hands over his precious face. “When I moved here, I expected nothing else-- but then I met Olenna and Missy and Gilly-- and  _ you _ , Jon-- I met you… you infuriating, lovely, incredible fool.”

 

He barked out a shocked,  _ joyful _ laugh. “A fool?”

 

She nodded, forcing her tears back, somehow smiling despite it all. “A damned fool, coming after me even though I was probably pricklier than a cactus.” He smiled, hopeless. She shook her head forcefully, a shocked laugh bubbling up from her belly, a byproduct of the roil of the strange and consuming  _ happiness _ that threatened. “And I’m a fool too, Jon, for thinking I could keep you away.”

 

She was gathered up, Jon’s arms wrapping around her, dragging her from her chair. She fell into him, dizzy, hopeless, nowhere left to run. 

 

The rain whispered in a droning hum around them, the wind dead and gone. Binx, who had been forced from her lap, scratched at the door with a begging meow, but they heard nothing but the breath in their lungs and the blood in their veins. 

 

The energy between them had been thrown to new, dizzying heights. A seismic pulse of need snapping them together like circuits, but not close enough. 

 

They drank from each other savagely, his hands roaming, leaving fissions of electricity over her bare legs, her scantily clad ass, her breasts hanging free under her tee. She fed him a moan, her body almost faltering against the wave of lust that swamped her as good as a tide. 

 

He shoved the placket of her panties aside and pressed two fingers into her, finding her clit with a growl. She pulled his rigid cock from his underwear in answer, catching his ear in her teeth as she took him in hand. 

 

All thoughts of caution and safety and those cumbersome worries of unintended consequences wilted under the power of their arousal, their shared need to consume each other whole. Before she knew quite what was happening, she was adjusting her knees beside his hips, was holding him to her entrance and he was sheathed inside her within a breath. 

 

He threw his head back with a curse, his hands gripping her with near-bruising strength. She dropped her head to his neck, the fullness of him, the heat burning into the most sensitive, unknown parts of herself was as delicious as it was terrifying. 

 

He started to lift her hips, desperate for movement, for respite. She leaned back from him, picking up the pace, bouncing and grinding and panting in desire. Her thighs burned with the strain, the hard plastic biting cruelly into her knees, but she hardly noticed. This feeling was too good— unequaled and intoxicating. 

 

He tangled a hand in her hair and brought her down for a breathless, crashing kiss and she broke apart, just like that, her climax sudden and searing, shocking her to the core as she shouted her ecstasy into the rain-damp air. 

 

It wasn’t long before he followed with an anguished cry of his own. The feel of him filling her up, hot and greedy and so very filthy, was enough to wring a wracking cry from her as she buried her hot face into his neck. 

 

Somewhere very far away, past all their knowing, a storm ferried its fury over the earth, and all they could do was fold up in each other and wait. 

 

+++ 

 

_ Dreamers _ __  
_ They never learn _ __  
_ They never learn _ __  
  


_ Beyond, beyond the point _ __  
_ Of no return _ __  
_ Of no return _ __  
  


_ And it's too late _ __  
_ The damage is done _ __  
_ The damage is done _ __  
  


_ This goes _ __  
_ Beyond me _ _  
_ __ Beyond you

_ \-- “Daydreaming”  _ Radiohead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter... what can I say about this chapter? 
> 
> First, I'm sorry for the wait. I've had far too much shit going on. Hopefully that changes shortly here. 
> 
> Second, this is a monumental shift in the narrative. Shit is getting very real, very fast. 
> 
> I'd like to thank the Tarts for their undying, absolute _effusive_ support over these trying weeks I've had. Thank you so much, loves. 
> 
> Shout out [Justwanderingneverlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/pseuds/justwanderingneverlost) for that amazing, beautiful moodboard. And of course my dear, dear beta, [hardlyfatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal), who keeps me honest and motivated. <3
> 
> Tell me what you think, please.
> 
> PS: the last line is a transmuted quote from Cormac McCarthy's "Blood Meridian"


	10. SUMMER, I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stared at the black panes of the window, trying to keep his breath steady as his mind rolled over everything he had felt that evening. The heady spell she cast with his name shaped on her lips, the impossible feel of her all around him, enveloping and consuming and inescapable. The flush of rage, flooding up hot and dangerous from his core. That dark, primal part of himself he’d long kept locked away, dashing itself upon the bars. The potency of it was as terrifying as it was damning.

  
  


If Jon wasn’t fucked before, he certainly was now. 

 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t been too far gone for ages now-- since pretty much the first time he saw her standing in those old riding boots and her too-big hoodie in the garish glow of Cat’s Convenience Store. Or even before then-- when he’d first met her, squinting against the yellow sun glaring off the glass of her ticket booth (it was undeniably  _ hers _ now) as she brazenly implied that maybe he was the creep that had been hassling her friend. 

 

No, he’d known then and there that he was going a little mad. But now he’d walked willingly into terra incognita. He’d never find his way back without ripping himself open on that barbed and spined no-man’s land that was heartbreak. 

 

After they’d gathered themselves up (in more ways than one) among the mist of a freshly-watered earth and the slow drone of crickets, they crawled silently into the cool gray sheets of his bed, curling around each other like a coil of rope. 

 

Though they had exhausted themselves, had spilled their darkness out, had clumsily sealed their wounds with hungry mouths and hot hands-- he was strangely restless. As flighty as a colt, hand shaking in the wake of the storm that had brewed up between them as he stroked his fingers over the ridge of her spine. 

 

He stared at the black panes of the window, trying to keep his breath steady as his mind rolled over everything he had felt that evening. The heady spell she cast with his name shaped on her lips, the impossible feel of her all around him, enveloping and consuming and inescapable. The flush of rage, flooding up hot and dangerous from his core. That dark, primal part of himself he’d long kept locked away, dashing itself upon the bars. The potency of it was as terrifying as it was damning. 

 

He knew how to soothe himself, how draw in a breath and expel all those nerves and ticks that could carry you away, make you lose your head, lose a fight. It had become something of a reflex by now. 

 

But now he was left a wrecked and bloody mess, with the woman who had slipped into his bloodstream like a drug laying soft and pliant in his bed, sealed to his side, warm and real and scraped raw from what had just happened. She had offered herself-- all of it-- and he couldn’t help but drink it up like the glutton he was.

 

He knew she was awake, too. She was drawing little shapeless lines over the scars on his chest with her index, as if she could find some pattern that would banish them forever. But words would not do right now, so they simply languished, silent and carefully hopeful. 

 

Despite the blissful haze he had lost himself in, dread pierced its way through, as it always seemed to do. One edge of its blade was the immutable fear of fucking this all up beyond repair, but the other was meaner and more immediate-- they had thrown caution to the winds and fucked like there was nothing else for it, and God only knew what the consequences of that would be.  He’d been in scrapes and struggles that’d scare the piss out of most any man, but those seemed like nothing compared to what he was facing now. 

 

Maybe he had fucked it all up already. 

 

He brought his hand up, curling it in her hair, chest hitching a bit as he searched for the words to ask the question that hung over him like a fat spider on a thread of silk.  

 

“Dany,” he finally managed, voice low and worried. “Are you... “ He cleared his throat.  _ Dammit _ , this was harder than he thought it would be already. “Are you on… anything?”

 

She stilled her hand, curling it under her chin. It took her a moment to respond. “No.”

 

He closed his eyes, heart kicking up in his chest in warning as he expelled a long, pained breath. He had already assumed as much. He couldn’t imagine that a life on the run was amenable to long-term prescriptions and regular trips to sexual health clinics. That didn’t make it any easier to hear after what they’d just done. After what  _ he’d _ just done. 

 

“Fuck,” was all he could think to say.

 

“I think Missy may have something I can take,” she assured him quietly. “I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

 

His fingers tightened over her shoulder, trying not to let the relief of this news wash him away. “That’s good,” he said.

 

“If it makes you feel any better,” she said, voice strange with applied ambivalence, “I seem to be not be so great at getting pregnant.” 

 

He shifted his head to look down at her, perturbed. “You don’t know if it was you or him. Said it yourself,” he pointed out. “I--  _ we _ shouldn’t risk it.” 

 

She licked her lips, nodding, looking maybe a bit annoyed, a bit chided. She went back to swirling her fingers over his chest. “Do you want me to get a prescription?” 

 

_ Yes, please. God, yes, I’ll drive you tomorrow, _ is what bubbled up in his throat almost instantly, but he swallowed the words back down. He remembered Ygritte, how much birth control seemed to fuck her up, how it made her tired and listless and as moody as he was at times. 

 

“That’s your choice,” he returned instead, voice shockingly steady. “I know it messes with a lot of women-- that they don’t like taking it.” He sighed, shifting her a bit closer in reassurance. “But we can’t let something like…  _ that _ happen again, if you don’t get one.” 

 

She was silent, for a long moment. He didn’t know what to think about that. 

 

“Plus,” he continued, uncomfortable, maybe a bit nervous. “There are… other reasons.” He inwardly cursed. Was she going to think that he was trying to imply that either she or him had a fucking STD? It didn’t really matter anyway— he didn’t really know how much more delicately he could put it.

 

She hummed in reluctant agreement. “I haven’t gotten tested in years.” 

 

He puffed out a breath of relief, wondering why he should have been worried in the first place. She was a grown woman, as strong and independent as any he’d ever known… not some silly girl shrinking away from very adult things that may not be very, well,  _ sexy _ . 

 

“Me either,” he confessed. 

 

“Where the hell do you go for that kind of shit out here?”

 

He laughed quietly at that. Such facilities were few and far between in cattle country. “You don’t. Have to make a trip out to Missoula for that.” 

 

She sat up to look at him fully, her eyes sparking with what could only be excitement. It made his throat constrict. “Jon Snow, are you proposing a road trip?” 

 

He grinned at her. He hadn’t been, really, just stating a fact. His mind was still too fogged and numb for him to consider more than the melody of her pleasure echoing in his ears, the heat of her skin still lingering on his tongue. But now the thought struck him and held on tight. 

 

“We can enjoy romantic dining and scenery,” he said, brushing his palms over the line of her arms, “funky art galleries, seedy bars and the understated beauty of the local Planned Parenthood.” 

 

She feigned swooning, clutching her hands and leaning her head against them. “Oh, Jon Snow, what a romantic you are.” 

 

He didn’t know how he’d survive her. She would never understand the power she had-- how making her smile had become something of a reflex-- an act that was so involuntary it felt odd and alien when it failed. Like missing a step at the end of the stairs. At any moment he could stumble over the edge and never hope to fully recover.

 

He brought a hand up to her neck, stroking a thumb over her jugular as he resisted the urge to leap from the bed and go to his laptop to fish around for hotels and Airbnbs right then and there. 

 

“Aye, and I can get some new spurs while we’re there, too.” 

 

She dissolved into laughter, giving up the act, and kissed him fiercely. 

 

Yes, he was very, very fucked.

 

+++ 

 

He made the appointment the next day. 

 

But, it was in three weeks. The perils of living in a veritable wilderness that was also run by folks who were basically fundamentalists. The fact that there was a clinic at all for him to call was its own small miracle. 

 

In the meantime, he had to try to keep the dumb grin off his face. 

 

The morning after the fateful night, they’d awoken groggy and elated-- as if they both were most pleasantly surprised to find the other beside them. 

 

They had fucked again within the gray light of morning, the chill of the air turning their skin rough and pebbled. This time around they took their time, reluctant to rise from the hiding place that was sheets and skin. He brought her apart under his mouth again and again until she dug a heel into his shoulder and pushed him over onto his back. She rode him slow and thorough, lips parted in a soundless cry, peering at him through hooded lids. He had to shut his eyes, the vision of her too much to bear. 

 

Over breakfast that morning, they had discussed how to go about this relationship business, considering her current… predicament. 

 

They had squabbled over the issue of notifying the police. She insisted that he not go to Davos, that the police had never been any help to her, had never believed that her own brother abused her, was now following her from town to town with some dark intent. Police were often the abusers themselves, after all, and could be bought and sold as easy as anyone. Besides, no crimes had actually been committed and cops were disinclined to act upon “a frightened woman’s instinct”, no matter how harrowing.  

 

He had cursed and fisted his hands in his hair, had protested that Davos was one of the best men he knew. That he had saved his own ass from close calls and nasty scrapes a time or three. That the Sheriff  _ knew _ him, trusted him, would act on his faith in him, but there seemed to be no dissuading her. 

 

He couldn’t help feeling like there was something very odd, very  _ specific _ that she was not telling him. She seemed more touchy about the issue of police than any of the other sensitive issues they had touched upon that morning.  He had kept it to himself, for now. After all, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been squirreling away his own secrets.  Besides, her growing agitation had told him loud and clear that any sort of needling on her still raw nerves would accomplish nothing more than hurt feelings and sparked tempers.

 

He had half a mind to simply lock her away in his cabin, never let her out of his sight again. He wasn’t sure how he’d survive, truth be told— having her away from him for days and days, worrying and dreading that his darkest fears had come to life until he could hear her voice again. 

 

But he had to shut that weird, cave-man shit out, and knew he’d best be quick about it, to boot. He had to remind himself, over and over, that she’d been doing this for years, seemed confident that as long as she was within a space where there may be any witnesses, nothing would happen. Her bravery astounded him. She was as clear-eyed and determined that morning as he’d ever seen her and he felt himself tumbling anew.  

 

That hadn’t quashed  _ all _ his worries though. “Does anyone else know?” he had asked with a frown. 

 

“Tyrion and Olenna,” she had replied and he lifted his eyebrows in surprise. She shrugged. “I was as shocked as you are, but apparently they run a low-key, under-the-table safe house for runaways like myself. They have eyes and feelers out.”

 

He had felt immeasurably relieved by this. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “I know it’s a bit overkill,” he began, scratching the back of his head, “but do you want to learn how to shoot in the meantime?” 

 

She had smiled at him so wickedly at that he nearly choked on his eggs. 

 

Her departure that afternoon had proven easier than he had anticipated, knowing that she had others looking out for her, but it was still painful-- made even more so by one thing they had agreed upon over coffee that morning. 

 

In an effort to protect  _ him  _ from potential prying eyes, Dany had insisted that their relationship be kept to the confines and solitude of the ranch. In-town dates and visits to Olenna’s would no longer be on the table. She would ride in with Gendry every Saturday evening after work (Gendry always swung by to pick up Arya on Saturdays) and would leave with Missy Tuesday afternoons, as they both worked the same shift at the theatre that day. 

 

It all seemed like something out of a cheesy spy novel, this cloak and dagger shit, but the look she had given him had prevented him from protesting… much. She wanted to protect him as much as he did her. That thought still made his head spin-- the knowledge that he was worth protecting to someone… to  _ her _ . 

 

So every Saturday, he rushed out of the stable after a day of wrangling or branding or replacing fence posts, completely fucking unconcerned about the relentless teasing and shit-talking his siblings threw after him as he rode away. And every Saturday, he waited for her at the fork in the main drive, sometimes in his truck, sometimes with the horses. And, everytime, he could feel her hold on him tightening like a vise, as he watched her leap from the truck, beaming, and try not to sprint to him, try not to jump into his arms-- and would fail... every time. 

 

He knew that this arrangement was nothing like actually living together, but it still involved some of the same intimacies and… general weirdness that just came part and parcel when staying in close quarters with another person for three nights a week. Especially since his little cabin was  _ particularly  _ close quarters. 

 

Although Dany seemed more than graceful within social situations (his sisters and brother often crashed into their little bubble at least one night without fail), she also had a predilection for solitude. When they weren’t fucking or eating or laughing or cooking or shooting or watching movies, she would occasionally make a retreat. Most of the time she didn’t even mean to hole herself up, but she would end up getting lost in her sketches or in her books that she seemed to bring in by the truckload. (He inwardly wondered how she carted around so many in her fugitive state, but then again, he supposed that most were borrowed from various Tyrell House tenants.) At any rate, he didn’t really mind-- he was something of a loner, too. 

 

She also suffered from a pretty severe case of absentia, often placing things down and instantly forgetting where she had put them. He became fairly adept at remembering for her. 

 

She slept like a cat, all curled up in herself in such strange positions he often marvelled at how they could possibly be comfortable. 

 

On top of books, she brought records. Old ones, warped and spotty with mold with peeling slipcovers. She seemed hell-bent on teaching him about “proper music”. He allowed it peaceably, as he had a sneaking suspicion that the collection-- Twitty, Cline, Williams Jr. and a plethora of Motown-- had been passed down from the mother she spoke seldom of but obviously missed fiercely. She scoffed and huffed at his more… eclectic tastes-- like weird funky shit from Nigeria and more “mundane” stuff like The Black Keys-- but he had seen her swaying her hips and tapping her foot a time or three. 

 

She was a terrible cook. She did not possess the patience or even the general  _ willingness _ to watch the pan and so would often blacken the bacon or smoke up the ground floor with burning casseroles. She was much more enamored with the  _ idea _ of cooking, with the end product all pretty and scrumptious on the plate, than she was with the actual process. She was absolutely determined to fix this perceived flaw, however, no matter how he assured her that he was fine with cooking. As such, he formed the habit of opening all the windows when she would excitedly tell him about a new recipe she found online. 

 

She also claimed often and loudly that she was a devout “dog person”, but had become fast friends with Binx. It got to the point that Binx would wander the living room aimlessly after she left, mewling so forlornly Jon had to resist the urge to boot him out the front door. 

 

She had also developed a small fascination with his own book collection-- of which consisted mostly of large tomes about film, weird postmodern shit he tried very hard to like when he was younger, and random assortments of travel guides-- the trappings of his pipe-dreams. She was especially taken by one of his personal favorites,  _ Cinematography: The Art of the Shot, _ and would sit cross-legged on the couch, oohing and awing over the glossy pages, telling him which ones she liked best as he chopped an onion or sliced the bread (on the nights he was successful in his endeavor to banish her from the kitchen). 

 

She was surprisingly good at shooting. Within four practice rounds she was knocking every other can from the fence out in the front yard. The last practice run had ended in them pressed against the trunk of the enormous cedar, fucking like it was their last. (He’d also developed the habit of keeping condoms on his person at all times.)

 

And so it went. The days grew longer and hotter and they had successfully christened just about every surface of his little cabin, and others besides. They had watched nearly the entire Kubrick collection (much to her patient exasperation), and had already gone through most of the wine he had bought the day after their first night together. They were utterly content and wrapped up in each other as good as barbed wire. 

 

Until it all went to shit, of course. 

 

+++ 

 

“Tyrion doesn’t approve of us going to Missoula.”

 

He snapped his magazine shut, feeling that cold, knowing cynicism he had successfully battled away for weeks blaze up in his brain. He shifted the phone to his other ear. “So… what does that mean?”

 

“Nothing dire,” she replied coolly, “he’s just being a twit because we won’t be close by. Won’t be able to keep tabs on me.” 

 

He paused a moment, thinking it over, eternally grateful for her patience with him. He always took longer than most to collect his thoughts before he spoke-- an exceedingly rare trait, he found. She had been perhaps the only  _ person _ \-- let alone  _ woman _ \-- that had given him that very necessary gift with little coercion. He could barely get a word in edgewise with Ygritte. He used to think it was cute.

 

“It sounds like you won’t be as safe, then,” he finally replied. 

 

She scoffed. “I’ll be with you,” she declared emphatically.

 

He felt such a strong stirring in his chest he had to close his eyes, steady himself. Her unwavering confidence in him made him feel both proud beyond reckoning and scared shitless. 

 

“Although Tyrion’s being a little shit,” she continued, undaunted, “he’s at least happy that I’ve shacked up with the most dangerous man in Montana, by his esteemed estimation. I wouldn’t have guessed it. You keep it hidden pretty well.”

 

He flushed at that, feeling rather unworthy of such praise, though suspicion crawled under his skin like a weevil. 

 

“He doesn’t even know me,” he protested, “beyond what weird movies I like to watch.”

 

“He knows more about everyone than you would care to find out,” she returned, a bit bitter. “Trust me on that one.”

 

He went cold, his hands gone shaky and a bit numb, coming to a sudden understanding.  _ Oh, fuck. _

 

“What did he tell you?” he asked shakily. 

 

“Not much,” she answered easily. “Just that you used to fight, once upon a time. And you were damn good at it, apparently.” 

 

He sighed mightily, pressing his forehead into the heel of his hand, slamming his eyes shut against his shame. Those days were a very, very dark spot in his life, one he had intended to tell her about… eventually. He just hadn’t found a good time to look over at his girlfriend and say ‘by the way, I used to be an illegal bare-knuckle boxer because I was an angsty little shit for most of my teens and early twenties.’

 

She barked a laugh in the wake of his unknowingly protracted silence. “A fighter  _ and  _ a good shot,” she said almost wistfully, “quite a combination, old man.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he managed, a bit wretched. “Dany, I was going to tell you about it--”

 

“It’s fine, Jon,” she assured, voice gone soft. “I’m the last person to get mad at you for keeping things in your past that you’d rather stay there.” 

 

He puffed out a relieved breath, heart clenching in his chest. “I’m still sorry.”

 

“Just answer me one thing,” she said seriously. “How did you not get that pretty face of yours all messed up?”

 

He laughed with a fair amount of bitterness as he flopped back down into the couch with his arm over his eyes. He didn’t really know how to answer that question without sounding like a braggy jackass. “I, uh... I was really quick,” he finally landed on. 

 

“So quick that no one got even  _ one _ punch in?” she asked doubtfully. 

 

“I mean… maybe three or four of them, yeah,” he replied nervously, clearing his throat. “But, uh, none got close enough to do any real damage.” 

 

“Jesus  _ Christ _ , Jon,” she breathed. He wasn’t really sure what was hiding beneath her tone, but it made his blood swirl and pool right in his groin. 

 

They were silent for a spell, neither really knowing what more to say in the face of this revelation. 

 

Finally, he cleared his throat. “So… you still want to go? To Missoula?” he clarified. 

 

“Of course,” she said, smile evident in her voice. “Five days of you to myself in a town that has places open past nine? What more could a girl like me ask for?”

 

“Hot Pie’s is open past nine,” he pointed out cheekily. 

 

“Oh, right, it’s open 'til  _ ten _ . Scratch that, then. Let’s just stay here.”

 

He smiled, but shook his head in a sudden grim certitude. “But seriously, Dany, If Tyrion thinks it’s not safe—“

 

“Like I said, Jon,” she cut across him flatly, “it comes down to what I feel. And I feel safe with you.” She paused for a long time, allowing him to grapple with himself, to get his stuttering heart under the reins. “Plus, if it makes you feel better, we can take other precautions.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Leave at the ass-crack, for starters— or even before would be better.” She paused again. “Have you already reserved a place?”

 

“Yeah,” he answered, fairly perplexed by this question. 

 

“Can you cancel?”

 

“Well, yeah, I guess. But why would I do that?”

 

“Credit cards are traceable.”

 

He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. 

 

“I’m sorry, Jon…” she said quietly, regret soaking every word. 

 

“No,” he said, voice weaker than he wanted, disappointment still simmering on the surface. He had found the  _ perfect  _ place— one with a huge shower and a cozy little balcony. It even had an espresso machine. “No, it’s fine. I have plenty of cash. We can find something on the way in.” He managed a flash of a smile. “Makes it a bit more romantic, if you think about it.”

 

He heard the quiet crinkle of a long, slow, very melancholy breath in his ear. “Thank you.”

 

“No need.”

 

A tiny chuckle. “It’ll be like we’re Bonnie and Clyde.”

 

He smiled, just fucking hopeless. “I hope you’re not planning on robbing any banks.”

 

She huffed dramatically, as if she was very put out. “Wouldn’t even think about it nowadays,” she said grumpily. “Can’t even properly rob a bank without getting caught this day and age.”

 

He closed his eyes, the happy, heedless weight in his chest nearly suffocating. “Those damn kids don’t know what they’re missing.”

 

“If only I had a cane to wave at them.”

 

He laughed, feeling elated and torn to shreds all the same. Every damn time he talked to her lately, looked at her, touched her... it had proven a mighty struggle— to not blurt out just exactly what she did to him, what he felt for her. It took all his strength to keep it hidden, keep it trapped behind his teeth. At this point, it felt almost Sisyphean. 

 

He just  _ knew, _ somehow, that the word “love” would send her packing-- though it had to be as obvious as the nose on her face. He showed her in every other possible way, but saying it aloud, bringing it in the open and branding her with it would be too much for her to bear. The guilt she carried about the less-than-ideal conditions surrounding their relationship, the responsibility she felt for placing him in what could only be described as a dangerous situation…  it would be enough to trigger a flight response from anyone, even someone as stalwart as Dany. 

 

He took some amount of comfort in the very real, very terrifying fact that he saw it within her, too— an unmistakable light behind her eyes when she looked at him sometimes…  _ most  _ of the time. That word lighting up her face. That  _ one _ fucking word caught in her throat like a thorn. 

 

“I’d love to see that,” he finally managed instead, smiling sadly. 

 

She laughed and he had to press the phone to his chest, just for a second, so he could swallow it down all over again. 

 

He cleared his throat, deciding that a change in subject was pretty much required at this point if he were going to keep his cool. “Ready for the party tomorrow night?”

 

“Depends,” she replied. “How drunk are you and Robb going to get?”

 

He shook his head with a chuckle. “It’s his birthday.  _ Someone’s _ gotta be the DD and I know my sisters aren’t going to be any help on that front.”

 

“Uh-huh,” she answered doubtfully. “In other news, it’s going to be hard pretending that I don’t want to rip your clothes off for an entire evening.”

 

“Is it?” he asked ruefully. “We’ll be in public, you know.”

 

“I’m getting good and drunk, Jon, I can’t promise anything.”

 

“You’re the one who’s  insisting that we go about the evening like we’re merely acquaintances.” 

 

“Acquaintances can still be attracted to one another,” she pointed out. 

 

“True.” He scratched the back of his head, a bit flustered. “But we have to be careful, right? You told me--”

 

“I know, Jon, I know,” she interrupted somewhat crossly. “I am fully aware how fucked this is and how I can’t fawn over my boyfriend in public and will probably have to watch girls throw themselves at you the whole evening while resisting the urge to throttle them all.” 

 

Jon smirked, the very vivid image of her red-faced and smoldering with rage as some empty-headed yokel cajoled him into buying her a beer flashed into his mind. It was somewhat unrealistic, he thought-- she’d be clicking back the hammer of the little Smith and Wesson he gave her, not sulking in the corner. 

 

“You don’t think men are going to be coming after  _ you _ ?” he countered. He already had a reputation in town: the prickly loner with few prospects and a shady past. Women, even if they stared and tittered occasionally, steered well away from him. It used to upset him… not so much anymore.

 

Dany, on the other hand, was something of a novelty in little Winterfell (in any shitstain town in a 40 mile radius, really-- and quite possibly, in his humble opinion, the entire country). Men would be swooping in by the score. Just the _ thought  _ of having to endure the sight of some meat-headed dimwit leaning into her space, trying to charm her, made his vision swim. 

 

She paused, thinking it over with a hum. “By my estimation, Jon Snow,” she said slowly, a bit suggestively, “we very well might be ever so fucked.”

 

He laughed loudly at that. “Guess we’ll have to find out the hard way.”

 

She hummed again, pleased. “Good night, old man.”

 

“‘Night, cowgirl.”

 

+++

 

He knew it’d be hard, but he didn’t think it’d be fucking  _ impossible _ . 

 

He  _ knew _ they should have just rented out the tap room. Bronn probably would have given them a fair price. Maybe then there wouldn’t have been so many people buzzing about like horse flies,-- one of which he particularly wished to swat out of the air. Out of  _ existence _ . 

 

But Robb had refused, his damnable generous nature getting the best of him. He felt guilty keeping Blackwater Brewery, the local favorite, all to himself for a whole Saturday night just “for his fucking birthday”.

 

So revelers and rabble alike mingled in the airy stable and Jon had to prudently keep his eyes averted (or at least try to) as Karl fucking Tanner honed in on Dany like a dog on a scent trail. 

 

Karl Tanner was, somehow, a cowhand for the ranch south of them. A bitter rivalry had somehow been brewed up between the crew of Stark Ranch and those of Deepwood Ranch over recent years— through no provocation from Jon and the rest of his family and crew. After all, it wasn’t  _ their  _ fucking fault that the Starks were better at land management, at buying bulls and dams, at basically everything else that went into cattle ranching. Stark heads went for something like a third more at auction than those that Deepwood produced. The Glovers and their ilk decided long ago that the Starks were just jumped-up rich kids with chips on their shoulders, unworthy of their land and the herds that grazed it. 

 

It certainly didn’t help that their foreman was a woman. Deepwood was resolutely stuck in the past, feet firmly rooted in outdated dick-measuring and impotent machismo and all the foolery and fuckery that came along with it. It wasn’t even as if Stark Ranch was some sort of rare, progressive anomaly in the cattle business anyway. Ranching had a long tradition of cowgirls and forewomen— even into the pioneer days. It only furthered the point that Deepwood Ranch was a breeding ground for mouth-breathing scumbags.

 

In their younger years, especially when Jon had been in the ring, he and Robb (Robb might have joined him in some of Jon’s more... unruly fights) had gotten into many a scrap with Tanner and his crew of surly misfits— and had always thumped them into the dust. But in recent years, whenever the two groups had the misfortune of crossing paths, they tried their damndest to ignore each other and keep out of the other’s way. 

 

That was proving to be a near-impossible endeavor as Jon glowered at the weasley little shit from across the tap room. Dany was trying her best to get Tanner to steer clear— even Jon’s sisters were glaring daggers at him, but Tanner just didn’t fucking get the hint. Or maybe he  _ had _ gotten it, and just didn’t care. 

 

“Would it help to say that I’m sorry?” his brother asked as he bellied up to the high-top Jon was currently leaning on with fresh beers for the both of them. Jon felt a bit guilty… his brother had spent much of the evening that was  _ supposed _ to be about _ him  _ having fun watching over Jon’s reckless ass instead.  

 

Jon straightened, tearing his eyes away from the scene. Tanner had given up— for now. Jon knew better than to think he was throwing in the towel entirely. Tanner was a mean drunk and had two very dangerous personality traits: a hopelessly frail ego and a tinderbox for a temper. He’d be back.

 

This toxic mixture was perhaps the only thing reigning his sisters in, Jon assumed. If provoked, there would certainly be a fight-- no matter the gender of the provocateurs-- and Jon and Robb would rip him and his goons apart. Arya and Sansa did not want to ruin Robb’s night. 

 

“No, not really,” Jon finally answered, downing his beer in almost one go. 

 

“Well, I am,” Robb said as he took a quaff of his ale. “Should’ve rented the place out.” 

 

“You know how much I hate saying ‘I told you so’.” 

 

His brother looked over at him, eyes worried. He and everyone else in their little knot of friends knew about the situation between Jon and Dany (or, at least, the basics), knew how delicate the act was in the first place, without this added... complication. 

 

“I’m afraid that this evening might end with me bailing you out of jail for rearranging Tanner’s teeth,” Robb mused. 

 

Jon clenched his jaw, willing his anger down as best he could.  _ God _ , he was being stupid and he  _ knew  _ that, but  _ fuck _ if he didn’t want rip the little shit’s head off—

 

“Hey,” Robb said firmly, knocking Jon from his violent fantasies that were really very satisfying, but also wholly unhelpful at this current juncture. “It’ll be  _ fine _ . Dany can handle herself. She already shook him off once. She can do it again.”

 

Jon sighed, nodded, knowing his brother was right. He felt the storm within him quiet, even if just slightly. He smirked knowingly at him. “It’s good to know you’d bail me out of jail.”

 

“Of course, you’re my brother.” Robb pointed an accusing finger at him, looking serious. “That _doesn’t_ mean I’m green-lighting a cameo appearance of _The_ _White Wolf_.”

 

Jon shook his head, pulling a face at the mention of his regrettable boxing name. “I’ll behave… but if he puts one fucking finger on her—“

 

“I know, I know, you’ll rip his arms off or something ridiculous,” Robb interrupted sourly, though he tried to hide a grin with his beer mug. “At least you get to  _ see _ your girl.”

 

Jon’s heart fell at that and he looked to the pitted, sticky wood of the table. “How are things with that?” 

 

Robb seemingly couldn’t help the little, besotted grin that ticked up in the corner of his mouth. “I’ll tell you one thing, Snow, it’ll be a damn sight better once she gets back out west.”

 

“So she’s definitely moving back?”

 

Robb nodded, his smile shy and hopeful. Jon felt his chest warm in potent affection. Of all the people he knew, his brother perhaps deserved happiness the most, and damn if Jon wasn’t convinced that Margaery was the woman to help give it to him. 

 

“She has three more weeks until summer courses end and then she’ll be back,” he said. 

 

“I know it seems like an eternity, Stark, but three weeks isn’t bad,” Jon assured him. 

 

Robb nodded, looking pained but understanding all the same. “What about you?” he asked suddenly, tilting his chin to where Dany sat. She was now playing a rather loud game of Chickens with Yara, Missy, and his sisters. “What’s the plan there?”

 

Jon smiled sadly at that, trying to think of how to answer as a tiny stab of something he would not name prodded his heart.

 

“Not sure,” was all he could conjure, and he was suddenly possessed by such a powerful and strange…  _ helplessness _ he had to clutch the edge of the table. 

 

Robb regarded him sympathetically, maybe even a bit worried. “You’ll figure out something,” he assured firmly, maybe a tad unrealistically. He didn’t know the whole story, didn’t understand what Dany was facing, what Jon had to endure. “Never seen you so knotted up about a girl before. Not even—“

 

Jon knew why his brother pulled so harshly on the reins just then to keep himself from finishing that sentence— although the word he had omitted had rung as loud and obvious as the ‘thwack’ of a screen door. Jon  _ knew _ that his brother was simply trying to protect him, that it came from a place of abiding love, but that didn’t make the implication of it any less difficult to stomach. 

 

“You can say her name you know,” Jon said as evenly as he could. “I’m not going to start throwing things.” 

 

“I don’t think that you’re—“ 

 

“And besides,” Jon cut across him, “you’re right.”

 

Robb looked a bit startled at this, that his brother should so openly and easily admit to it. As if acknowledging such a fact somehow diminished or even trivialized his time with Ygritte and what she meant to him. Jon couldn’t help but laugh, small and bitter like a weed. He once upon a time had liked to think that he was some aloof mystery man when he was younger, that he was actually quite adept at playing his cards close to the vest. 

 

Truth was, that although he might be an abysmal failure at putting his emotions into words, it didn’t mean he was somehow incapable of manifesting every last one of them in his face, his arms and hands, his entire fucking body. Arya, Sansa and Ygritte had both teased him so accurately and thoroughly in his youth, he had little choice but to give up the act. Robb, being the man he was, was still a bit slower on the uptake. 

 

“It’s okay,” Jon found himself saying again, oddly calm, oddly at peace with it all. It had been something he had thought long and hard about. Had agonized over it within the solitude of his cabin, or the hypnotic rhythm of foothills and prairie on horseback. 

 

He dared not betray Ygritte’s memory. He dared not forget her and he dared not dwell. Falling hard and fast for the woman that sat just twenty feet from him— trying awfully hard not to make eyes at him and shamelessly drinking that fucking Pilsner no matter how he may have protested— did neither of those things. And he had been stunned by how easy that conclusion had come to him, weeks ago now. 

 

“Without her… I couldn’t ever hope to deserve a woman like Dany— not that I really do, but still,” Jon continued tightly. “It’s fine, Robb. I’m actually… I’m alright.”

 

Robb’s eyes softened, looking so relieved and elated it was as if he couldn’t fully believe it. 

 

Jon was about to offer more, maybe change the subject, but halted at Robb’s eyes shuttering and narrowing, focusing to something just behind Jon’s shoulder as he straightened tellingly. Jon turned around slowly, trying to fight back the fresh wave of disgust that washed over him. He already knew who had graced them with their presence. 

 

Tanner was standing there with a smirk on his face, looking much too relaxed considering who, exactly, he was smirking at. 

 

His gaze cut to Robb. “Happy birthday, Stark,” Tanner said, lifting his mug. “Nice of you to invite me.”

 

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Robb replied dryly. 

 

Tanner snorted, turning his beady eyes to Jon. “So, you and the little blond split up, Snow?” he asked with a deep frown. “Or maybe you never had her in the first place, eh? Too bad. Seemed rather friendly the last time I saw you here with her. Can’t blame yourself, though,” he said with a little smile that made Jon’s blood boil. “A man like you just can’t handle a woman like that.”

 

Jon could hear his teeth creak in his ears, feel the blood pound in his temples. Tanner was getting a fucking kick out of this. Jon idly wondered if Tanner even  _ wanted _ Dany, or was just having a grand old time fucking with him. Tanner always seemed to hate Jon the most.  _ Typical _ .

 

Tanner smacked his lips as he took a gulp of his beer and lifted his brows. He slapped Jon on the arm as if they were old pals. “There’s a good kid. Let the real men have a chance at her. Girl like that isn’t exactly a common sight in this shit town, you know. Shame to keep her all for yourself.”

 

Jon wasn’t taller than many people, but he  _ was _ taller than Tanner, if even by a mere inch, and he was sure to use this fact to his advantage as he drew himself up. 

 

Jon had long since stopped fretting about his height. His days in the ring taught him that size was, more often than not, a liability-- unless you learned how to properly wield it. Overly confident that their reach and height were the only weapons they really needed in their arsenal, most men didn’t care to learn— and that was why Jon never lost. 

 

Jon had always been calmest right  _ before _ taking the first swing-- his vision going steady and sharp, his hands still and tense as tripwire… and he felt that damning clarity break upon him now.

 

He let out a long, slow breath as he leaned back, tucked his thumbs into his belt, effectively preventing him from assuming a fighter’s stance. He narrowed his eyes, looking Tanner up and down as if he had just spotted a nasty bug on the wall and was contemplating how best to be rid of it. 

 

He watched with some relish as Tanner’s already sallow skin grew a bit pale, a bloom of sweat sheening on his brow. 

 

This was venturing into some very weird, borderline macho man bullshit that Jon usually avoided like the plague-- for the betterment of humanity, he believed. Nothing good ever came out of peacocking and posturing. But men like Tanner weren’t likely to respond to cold shoulders and stony silences. Men like Tanner only understood ‘dick language’ as Sansa had coined it, and Jon might’ve been a bit out of practice, but he still knew how to speak it. And pretty fucking well, at that. 

 

“Don’t you have a rock you should be crawling under or something?” Robb called from Jon’s side. His brother had stepped closer beyond Jon’s very focused awareness, rightfully assuming that he was but a hair’s-breadth away from throttling their unwanted guest. 

 

Tanner grinned, gathering himself, thin lips curling. “See you around.” And with that he left, steering clear of Dany and the Stark sisters, to his credit. 

 

“Jesus Christ,” Robb snarled, slamming his beer on the table. “I thought you were going to kill him.”

 

Robb knew how he was, had backed him up in enough scraps and dirty ring fights to know that when Jon’s shoulders fell and his eyes went cold, whoever the unfortunate bastard was at the receiving end was about to be seriously fucked. 

 

Jon sagged, the adrenaline rushing out, leaving him a weak mess. “Sorry,” he muttered. And he meant it, he really did, but what the fuck else was he supposed to do? “I need a fucking smoke.”

 

“Go,” Robb cajoled, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and waving him off with the other, “get yourself together, fuck’s sake.” 

 

+++

 

Jon thought that he had properly averted any crisis. 

 

He (and everyone else in their party) had been lulled into a false sense of security, it seemed. Tanner had disappeared, not showing his ugly mug again for the remainder of the festivities.

 

Later in the evening, they all gathered around to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the man of honor, who wore a large, ridiculous stuffed crown upon his head that Arya had shoved nearly over his eyes. Flushed and beaming, Robb blew out the candles of his cake to much back-slapping and cheering and Jon was utterly content. Dany had stood across him, looking gorgeous and elated as she blew the little paper horn she had clamped between her teeth. 

 

“Thanks for the cake, Sis,” Robb told Sansa (who was a rather adept baker), his voice a bit thick and slurred from drink and food. “It’s perfect!”

 

Sansa blushed, waving her hand as if it were no big deal. Bronn even emerged from the back room with a bottle of whiskey under his arm, offering it up as tribute to the revelers. It was happily passed hand-to-hand until not a drop remained.

 

Tired and a good bit drunk (with the exception of himself, Gendry, and Gilly), the celebration wound down and the party-goers settled their bills and filtered out into the moon-washed gravel parking lot. 

 

Jon lagged behind with Gendry, Sam, Robb and Theon, smoking and wise-cracking. Jon was just going to tell Gendry a very embarrassing tale about Robb’s unfortunate habit of tying lariats while profusely inebriated, when a comotion went up from the opposite side of the parking lot.

His stomach dropped to see Tanner had made an unwanted reappearance and had slung an arm around Dany’s shoulders as if they were old friends-- or familiar lovers. Even from his distant vantage, Jon could tell that he was very much drunk-- stumbling and red-faced and grinning in triumph. 

 

Missy and Gilly had just opened the door of the Datsun and were yelling at Tanner to get off Dany from over the roof of the car. Sansa, Yara and Arya, who had been off to the side exchanging jokes, had descended upon the scene like a group of angry hornets. 

 

Almost as one, Jon and his friends took off, jogging to the Datsun, Jon in front and resisting the urge to break into a sprint. Gilly had successfully disentangled Dany from Tanner’s arms and Jon took the opportunity to step past her and shove Tanner square in the chest with all his might. Tanner almost went ass-first into the rough gravel of the parking lot, but somehow managed to maintain his shaky footing, much to Jon’s disappointment. 

 

“Where the hell is the fire?” Tanner protested. “Can’t a man have a nice conversation with a pretty lady?”

 

“You weren’t conversing, you were groping,” Arya snarled from behind Jon.

 

“Groping?” Tanner slurred, blinking in confusion. “I don’t think I copped a feel of anything  _ important _ .” He smiled wolfishly. “That comes later.” 

 

“Tanner, get the  _ fuck _ \--” Jon began in a growl.

 

“What is it with you, Snow?” Tanner hissed. “Just can’t stand the fact that I might get something you can’t have, eh?” 

 

“Except that would impossible, asshole,” Arya protested, “because my brother is ten times the man you are.”

 

Tanner laughed bitterly at that and Jon’s fists clenched at his sides, closing his eyes as he tried to gather himself. “He’s not even your actual brother, Stark.” He turned his beady, black eyes onto Jon, smirking nastily. “He’s a  _ mistake _ . A mutt. And a rabid one at that.” 

 

Every fiber, every chord and vein and nerve in his body, was singing with an awful thirst for violence. He felt cool fingers circle over his left wrist. “Jon… he’s not worth it. Please.” 

 

He distantly recognized it as Dany’s voice, but the fog of rage was so thick that the words landed in his brain only superficially. 

 

Tanner’s eyes flicked to his wrist and then landed on Dany, who had stepped closer. “Best not bother, sweetheart,” he said, nodding to Jon with a mean gleam to his eyes. “No use in trying to tame a wolf.”

 

“Don’t do something you’d regret, Tanner,” Robb snarled from Jon’s other side, looking ready to taste blood. Tanner looked around blearily, eyes bouncing from person to person, all bristling and battle-ready. 

 

“Fine,” Tanner spat, seeing the situation swiftly flee from his control. His eyes landed on Dany, still gripping Jon’s wrist with white knuckles. “Fall into the bastard’s lap, like everything else he’s gotten his whole fucking life. I get it-- I’ve learned that pity is stronger than  _ respect _ .” Tanner spat at Jon’s boots, taking a clumsy step forward, getting in his space. Jon could smell his sour breath-- he’d obviously snuck in a bottle of rum. “After all, pity’s all you got, Snow. Only reason you have anyone or anything in your life.”

 

Jon just didn’t get it. It was as if they were in fucking high school again, where jibes like the ones Tanner was throwing at him would have sent him into a rage with little more ado. He’d gotten over all that shit long ago, had fought it out himself in the ring. 

 

It was almost as if Tanner  _ wanted _ Jon to hit him, to get the shit kicked out of him. Tanner  _ knew _ who Jon had been,  _ knew _ exactly what he was capable of in a fight and, most importantly,  _ knew firsthand  _ that he stood no fucking chance, even if Jon was a bit rusty. 

 

When Jon looked back on it, later, he would wonder why he had taken the bait. 

 

The grip on Jon’s wrist tightened, and his fury  _ almost  _ broke apart-- he almost,  _ almost  _ turned away to leave Tanner to his misery. 

 

But Tanner stumbled forward, clapped a hand on Dany’s shoulder, stuck a wagging, accusatory finger in her face. “Just be warned,  _ miss _ , that women who shack up with the White Wolf tend to end up dead.” 

 

Something simply snapped in his overtaxed brain, already weary and weak from holding back for essentially the entire evening. Some black aneurysm of hatred and disgust burst behind his eyes and he stepped forward and cocked back, old instincts kicking in as easy as flipping a switch. Fist connected to flesh and bone and then Tanner was spread on the ground, boneless and bleeding,  within a blink. 

 

“Jesus fuck, Jon,” Arya muttered in his ear, pulling him back from leaping upon Tanner’s prone form to take out a little bit more of his unnamable rage. 

 

“C’mon, Jon,” Robb was pleading, hand locked on his bicep and pulling him back. “Time to go.”

 

Before he knew quite what was happening, Jon was folded up in the backseat of Gendry’s pick-up, watching the dark landscape flash by with a well of shame bubbling up in his belly. 

 

+++

 

“That was a stupid thing to do, old man.”

 

She nearly scared the piss out of him, sitting on his darkened porch with a half-smoked cigarette in her fingers.  

 

He dropped his keys (they’d agreed that he should start locking his door, just in case), heart flying into his mouth with a strangled sound of surprise. He cleared his throat, bending to pick them up, fiddling and chagrined. 

 

In all the hubbub of the past few hours, he had completely forgotten that he and Dany had planned for Gilly to drop her off at his place with her bags that night. They were leaving for Missoula the day after tomorrow.

 

“I know,” he mumbled after he had gathered himself. “I’m sorry, for being such an idiot… but what could I do, Dany?”

 

She stood, taking one last drag and flicking her cigarette into the spittoon at her feet. She walked slowly toward him, face hidden in shadow. 

 

“I couldn’t— I couldn’t help myself,” he went on, slightly terrified by her silence, the full realization of what he had done just now breaking upon him like a wave. He’d thrown their cover, had fucked up all their careful planning. 

 

“You don’t know Tanner like I do, Dany,” he pressed on with a shake of his head, reassuring himself as much as her. “He’s a fucking snake in the grass. He can’t be—“

 

He was prevented in continuing his weak defenses by her mouth upon his own. 

 

His eyes popped open in shock. That was definitely the  _ last _ fucking thing he expected. 

 

With his brain still weak and roughed up by the turmoil of the evening, he could only do the one thing he had been yearning to do for hours.  _ Days.  _

 

The keys hit the planks again with a ‘clang’ as he brought his arms around her, yanking her to him with so much force she gasped into his mouth. But she didn’t pull away, only grew soft and pliant against him, dragging her fingers through his hair, his beard. 

 

His body responded so intensely to it that he nearly fell to his knees. His blood rang in his ears and she was already fumbling with the hem of his shirt. 

 

The past three weeks, he had memorized her every breath and gasp and exaltation very carefully. She had become his study, his constant experiment. And he had discovered that she liked being...  _ handled _ , enjoyed being roughed up a little. She’d never tolerate such demands outside their bed, but behind the closed and locked door of their little world, she seemed starved for it, and he was more than willing to nourish those unknown, secrets parts of her. And himself, if he was being honest. 

 

Her seemingly enduring trust that he would never cross that thin line she had drawn— and he had perhaps prodded a few times— never failed to ignite him good as a spark on tinder. 

 

He tore his mouth away, going for her neck, hungry for more of her— her heat and flesh and sweat. 

 

“Should get inside,” she whispered brokenly into his ear. 

 

He nodded, all the blood rushing into his groin making him a bit dizzy. He bent to retrieve his keys once again and unlocked the door, somehow, as his hands were shaking and his vision was swimming. 

 

Once inside she was on him again, nearly clawing his shirt off as they stepped clumsily into the living room. He tried his best to keep up, unsnapping her bra, yanking her pants down to her knees. His nerves were practically screaming— to get her closer, to bury himself within her until the edges blurred and broke and bled into each other. 

 

When she fell to her knees in front of him, an alarm bell sounded through the thick fog of lust filing his brain. She had yet to offer what he strongly suspected she was about to do, and he had very purposefully never asked. He knew that some dark, dark demons laid in her sexual past, and he desired nothing more than to avoid unearthing them, to never risk her associating any of her trauma with him. With  _ them _ . He had made it his mission to banish those foul thoughts, cut them away like the blight they were and replace them with lips and hands and mingled breaths. 

 

She had been drinking, that’s all it was. She was drunk and feeling a bit slutty. This was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Dany, you don’t—“ He bit his lip as she fisted her hands at the front of his jeans and pulled, as she hooked her thumbs over the waistband of his underwear and pushed them down to join his pants.  

 

With every shred of control left to him he reached down to pull her back up. “Are you…?”

 

She pushed his hands away and looked up at him, blue-green iris drawn thin around blown pupils. “I stopped drinking hours ago, Jon,” she said softly, voice pitched low and throaty. “Now stop worrying and let me take care of you.”

 

He nearly fucking fainted. Right then and there, half naked in his moon-splashed living room with a fierce, incredible woman knelt before him like the pale goddess she was. 

 

He curled his toes in his boots and nodded, eyes screwing shut under the weight that was the vision of her— lipstick red and smeared, hair all a-tangle, breasts heaving with desire. She was so goddamn beautiful. 

 

Just when he thought he had wrangled some of his composure back from the void, she scraped her nails down the inside of his thighs, pressed feather-light kisses up the length of his cock. 

 

When he felt a wet tongue dart out to taste that most sensitive spot of him, he hissed in a breath. His hands clenched at his sides in an effort to distract himself, to avoid grabbing at her hair and spooking her with all the filthy things he wanted to do in that moment. 

 

She circled a hand over the length of him, stroking from root to tip with a little purr that jolted him to the ends of his hair. He looked to the ceiling, willing himself to distraction with the whorls and eddies of the grain of the planks above him. 

 

He’d come to a somewhat humbling conclusion over these past few weeks that Dany maybe had developed something of a… fixation on how his cock felt in her hand. Whenever she got a hold of it, her toes would curl, her breath would hitch. It drove him absolutely wild. She had even once explained to him, quite frankly and unapologetically, that his cock was the nicest she had ever had the pleasure of dealing with, but to not let that “go to his head”. He’d laughed it off, made some terrible pun that she had rolled her eyes at and that had been that.

 

But now he was coming to realize that that incredibly endearing, incredibly sexy characteristic was now on track to evolve into something he wasn’t sure he’d be able to survive. 

 

She swallowed him down, so suddenly he nearly choked. Her mouth was so fucking  _ warm _ . He’d continually been astonished by how  _ hot  _ she was. Her body seemed to generate so much fucking heat it was almost,  _ almost  _ unbearable. And her mouth proved to be just as exquisite. 

 

Truth be told, she was a bit clumsy at first. It had obviously been awhile. But he was sure to try to communicate with her the same way she did with him-- with hisses of pain or pleasure, with gasps of delight. She seemed to catch on quick enough.

 

After only a moment (though it seemed like ages to him), she fell into it, and she did so  _ hard _ .

 

She reached for his hands that he had been careful to keep at his sides, and nudged them to her scalp. He let out a ragged breath, blinking against something powerful and weighty that the gesture stirred up within him. He dared look down at her and he felt as if his chest had been banded tight with an iron rung. 

 

She moved swiftly, her lips tight and agonizing around his cock with every drag. One hand brushed experimentally over his balls, the other digging into the flesh of his ass. 

 

Before too long she was wringing out broken moans and muttered oaths from him. His hands ran through the silky threads of her hair, pulling it aside to get a better view before dropping it back into a sheet when he could withstand the sight no longer. His mind was hanging on by a thread, every inch of him ready to simply devolve into an animal-- a creature of want and lust and nothing more. 

 

She pressed the heel of her hand into his hip, pushing, guiding him forward. He looked down at her wonderingly, tightening his hands in her hair to still her, not daring to believe what she was trying to permit with her body. 

 

She pulled her mouth off him with a loud, unseemly ‘pop’ that made his head spin. She looked up at him with such a wild, wicked,  _ eager _ expression he had to throw his head back, try to collect the shards of himself that she had strewn gladly into the night. 

 

She leaned back in, pushing his cock to the back of her throat with a hum he felt to the soles of his feet. She was gripping his balls properly now, tugging and demanding. It was some fucking miracle that he didn’t spill into her mouth that very instant. 

 

He pushed his hips forward, just ever so, and she responded with a groan, with nails digging into the flesh of his ass. 

 

He gritted his teeth, thrusting into her mouth shallowly, his paranoia about hurting her, about letting go fully, nearly spoiling the orgasm that had been swiftly building within him.

 

She seemed to sense his persistent trepidation, for she growled impatiently against him, muffled and muted. He was certain that he would never forget the sound of it for the rest of his fucking life. It was just about the sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever fucking heard. 

 

His resolve crumbled like a prodded cinder and his hips snapped into her. She drew back, but only a fraction, and he got the message. He gathered her hair into one of his fists and began moving anew. Firm, insistent pulses that seemed to satisfy some wanton, crazed part of her brain that needed this-- as well as his own dumb, lizard-brain desire to reach that edge with her-- with her lips wrapped around him in such a filthy, secret way. 

 

Her moans picked up, were vibrating around his cock. “Fuck, Dany,” he managed, the words echoing more loudly in his ears than he had intended. He cracked his eyes open and saw what, exactly, had been causing this sudden uptick in pleasure. Her hand was tucked between her legs, her knees spread wide and wanton on the wood of the floor. 

 

He cursed again, taking in a great gasp of air. “Dany,” he choked. “Dany, I’m-- I’m so close.” Her only response was a long, low groan-- helpless, shameless. Her fingers wound over his balls, grip tightening to just the edge of pain. 

 

His vision whited out. He didn’t even hear what kinds of sounds and curses were leaving him over the roar of blood in his ears. He emptied everything left within him into her clever, hungry mouth and she swallowed up every drop.

 

His head was swimming, his knees buckling. He stumbled to the couch behind him, falling upon it before he collapsed to the floor like a felled tree. She rose from her crouch with a tiny, satisfied smile on her lips that made him melt for her even more, before falling into the cushions next to him. 

 

He knew he should maybe thank her, though that seemed... strange. He knew that maybe he should try to reciprocate, though he had gotten the distinct impression that she did not want that. He _ knew _ that maybe they should speak of the implications of the events that evening-- of what the consequences would be and where they should go from here. 

 

But words simply would not come. At least, not those  _ safe _ words, the words that would make her rumble with pleased laughter, would make her hum in contentment against his shoulder. Those serious words of planning and navigating modified realities. 

 

So he simply circled his arm around her, bringing her to his sweat-slicked chest as they settled into the night, into the silence that they both terribly, painfully understood. 

 

+++ 

 

_ “I want to live life _ __  
_ And never be cruel _ __  
_ I want to live life _ __  
_ And be good to you _ __  
  


_ And I want to fly _ __  
_ And never come down _ __  
_ And live my life _ __  
_ And have friends around _ __  
  


_ But we never change, do we?  _

_ No, no _ _  
_ _ We never learn, do we?” _

_ “We Never Change”  _ Coldplay

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muahahaha, POV shift! GOTCHA!
> 
> I hope y'all like it, because I really enjoyed getting into Jon's stupid little head a bit. I'm scared shitless about it though.
> 
> Thank you so much to the exquisite angel that is [HardlyFatal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal) for the once-over. She keeps me honest.
> 
> Another huge thanks goes out to [Justwanderingneverlost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/pseuds/justwanderingneverlost) for that stunning mood board. (She's a genius, can't you tell?)
> 
> Thank you again to the Tarts, who are ever patient, ever kind, and ever hilarious/evil. :)
> 
> And finally to all my readers out there. For real the response to the last chapter had me on cloud 9 for _days_. How couldn't I not respond by gifting you all with an update that din't take three years? 
> 
> Let me know what you think! :) (and come say @freshhexes on tumblr!)


	11. SUMMER, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You deserve better,” she choked out, swiping at her eyes. 
> 
> He was so insulted by that, that she should ever think herself unworthy of him-- of anyone, all his doubt and uncertainty and abject fear fled him quick as a startled hare. He strode forward and snatched her up, yanking her from the couch and into him, his hold perhaps too tight, his voice perhaps too fierce as he whispered in her hair: _“Don’t.”_
> 
> She let out a mighty breath, curled her hands into fists in his tee. “I need to protect you, too, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to apologize in advance for the horribly long author's note at the end of this chapter, but I just wanted to cover all my bases. Enjoy!

 

Jon knew he shouldn’t have left.

 

He tramped up and over the hill, sweat already beading on his brow though it was not even noon yet, to see a patrol car parked in the front yard.

 

He had been gone less than a half hour, to take Summer and Ghost to the main stable so they’d be looked after while they were away, and now there was a cop poking about his cabin, which was presently occupied by a very small, but very fierce woman with a strong distaste for the fuzz and about a half dozen guns.

 

He picked up the pace, breaking into a jog, though he wanted to sprint.

 

He couldn’t fucking believe it. He _knew_ Tanner was an asshole, but even Jon didn’t think the slimy bastard could stoop _this_ low. There was a certain kind of honor among thieves, after all.  Going to the police to snitch (and admit that you were walloped) was cardinal sin number one.

 

A deputy he did not recognize was leaning against the rail of his front porch. Dany was sitting as tense as a hound after a fox on the edge of her chair, clutching a glass of iced tea.  

 

“Can I help you, deputy?” Jon asked as calmly as he could, taking his hat off once he got to the porch. He glanced at Dany, who looked as unruffled as ever, considering.

 

“Ah, Mr. Snow,” the deputy greeted, uncrossing his legs, placing his own tea on the table across from him and straightening up to offer his hand. Jon hesitated with a quick glance back to Dany before he took the other man’s hand and shook it stiffly.

 

“Heard there was some trouble at Blackwater Brewery last night,” the deputy continued, resuming his position on the railing. His relaxed attitude was _supposed_ to disarm, make Jon let his guard down. He may have had a somewhat peaceable relationship with the local sheriff, but he’d been in enough scraps with the law in counties all over the state to know better.

 

“Don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before, officer,” Jon said as evenly as he could manage. “Since you seem to know who I am, it’s only courtesy that you tell me who you are and why you’re standing on my porch.”

 

The deputy smiled, pushing the brim of his hat up with his thumb. “Of course, manners.” He shifted to stand up straighter and looked him in the face. “The name’s Jorah Mormont.”

 

Jon’s eyes went wide. “As in old Jeor’s son?”

 

“The very same.”

 

Jon felt his disquiet level out somewhat. Jeor Mormont was one of the best men he had ever known-- was responsible from preventing a young, anguished Jon Snow from destroying himself in the ring, was a father to him after his own died, had given him his most prized gun and told him secrets to marksmanship that not even Ned Stark was wise of.

 

Jon allowed his shoulders to lower a bit, but he wouldn’t be welcoming Jorah in for biscuits and lemonade just yet. Jeor had only spoke of his estranged son once, and it was not exactly favorable, though he never gave any sort of detail. And besides, now that Jorah’s attention was squarely on Jon, Dany was staring daggers at the man’s back.

 

“I’m sorry to interrupt your and Miss Storm’s… packing?” Jorah asked innocently, eyes roving from where the screen door had been propped open with Jon’s old JanSport, to the open tailgate of his truck backed up conveniently to just off the front path. There were bags and other flotsam piled by the rear tire. Jon had told her to wait for him to get back with the horses. “Where you two headed off to?”

 

Jon felt his gut clench and he glanced again at Dany. She shook her head once before Jorah could look back at her, their silent conversation not going unobserved. Most people would have missed it, but Jorah was a cop, and noticing the unnoticable was just a part of the job.

 

“Is there something I can help you with, officer?” Jon asked firmly, tucking his thumbs in his belt and shifting onto one leg, done with this ‘aw shucks’ friendly neighborhood officer act.

 

Something knowing and rather… _condescending_ entered Jorah’s face then, his smile applied, the lines around his eyes tense as he let out one, exasperated chuff. “As I said, Mr. Snow, there was some trouble at the Brewery last night.”

 

“Aye,” Jon answered, “so I heard.”

 

Jorah lifted his eyebrows. “So, you weren’t there last night?”

 

“I didn’t say that.”

 

“I see. So, you _were_ there?”

 

“Didn’t say that either.”

 

Jorah laughed coldly, playacting at being amused as he looked between him and Dany, one finger wagging from where his hand rested on his nightstick. “You two make quite a pair.” He shook his head. “Got about the same from your little woman here.”

 

Jon blinked at that, clothes-lining his brain hard and fast from forming the thoughts of choking out some smug shithead of a cop for calling his girlfriend a “little woman”. _He’s just throwing his weight around. New cop, little town._

 

“You two seem to have it all worked out. It’s impressive, really,” Jorah continued. He narrowed his eyes at Jon, as if seeing him for the first time. “So, Mr. Snow, who may or may not have been at Blackwater Brewery at approximately 11:50 PM last night-- can you tell me anything about an altercation that occurred in the parking lot?”

 

“I don’t believe I can.”

 

Jorah laughed again, sounding anything but amused. “You know, Mr. Snow, I have a warrant for your arrest. Could just do this the hard way.”

 

Jon felt his stomach fall to his feet. He had assumed as much. If Tanner had gone to the cops, there was really only one street he was headed down. He just didn’t understand _one_ thing.

 

“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked abruptly.

 

“The sheriff can’t be bothered with stuff like this,” Jorah answered with a shrug. “He’s got more important matters to attend to.”

 

“What, like lifting a joint from Edd Tollett or chasing down Old Man Frey for grabbing skirts?” Jon protested. Davos was firm and fair, and had taken quite a shine to Jon, and _also_ had many a nasty run-in with Tanner. Jon couldn’t think of one reason Davos would pass on the opportunity to give Jon a good talking to before clapping him on the back and giving him an approving wink.

 

Jorah’s eyes went colder, a little more of his applied, folksy charm falling away. From behind his elbow, Dany shifted uncomfortably in her chair, throwing Jon a warning look.

 

“It seems as though you may know more about what happened at the brewery the night than you’re letting on, Mr. Snow, if you’re under that impression.”

 

“As do you, deputy,” Jon returned sharply. “If you have a warrant for my arrest, you must know all about it. Which makes me wonder why you’re standing here on my front porch asking me questions that you already have the answers to.”

 

Jorah straightened, tucking his thumbs into his belt and shaking his head. “A bit of a temper, there, Mr. Snow.” He looked back to Dany, jerking his thumb in Jon’s direction. “How much has he told you, Miss Storm? Do you know that this young man has a history of violence?”

 

_Oh, no. No, no, no. Not today, motherfucker._ The way Jorah was looking at him right at that moment, his eyes dancing with amusement, Jon would’ve thought that the man was almost _goading_ him into hitting an officer. Jorah may have had his part-and-parcel, good cop/bad cop song and dance down to an art-- it would have had any piss-and-vinegar, punkass kid going for his throat in a heartbeat, but he was barking up the wrong tree to think that Jon would fall for it.

 

“I am aware of his… history, Officer,” Dany returned calmly.

 

Jorah huffed, taking a step closer to him. The man was tall, and used this to his advantage as he looked Jon up and down. “We have a file on your man, Miss Storm, back at the station,” Jorah called over to her without looking away from him. “Sheriff Davos has a soft spot for the Stark clan and especially for Jon Snow here, but that doesn’t mean we don’t keep tabs on the… trouble.” He smiled and looked over his shoulder at Dany again. “Should come down to the station sometime, read it over. It’s quite an--”

 

“You don’t need to talk to her anymore,” Jon interrupted, voice quiet but firm. “I’m the one you’re after, so how about you just stick to talking to me?”

 

Jorah’s blue eyes narrowed, his tongue running thoughtfully over his bottom lip. “Mr. Snow, do you _want_ me to arrest you?”

 

Jon huffed and shook his head, amazed. Some cops’ tolerance for lawful defiance was ridiculously low. He stood straighter and put his hat back on, figuring there was no point arguing with this one. “We can do without the handcuffs, deputy. I’ll come quietly.”

 

There was a small intake of breath from Dany, but Jon willed himself to not look at her, knowing that his bravado would wilt if he caught sight of fear or disappointment in her face. Jorah glanced at her from over his shoulder before looking back at Jon, his eyes questioning and vaguely suspicious.

 

He finally smiled, looking down at the planks of the deck. “I hear tell that Karl Tanner is a real piece of shit.”

 

Jon frowned at this, but said nothing.

 

Jorah nodded and kissed his teeth, looking from the open screen door, to the bags piled at the tire once again. “I think I’ll let it slide this time, cowboy,” he drawled, nodding to Dany over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to ruin a young couple’s holiday on account of an altercation as improbable as this one obviously is.”

 

There was a small, shocked silence before Jorah was touching his hat to both of them with a “Miss Storm” and a “Mr. Snow”. Then he was off the porch and headed to his prowler. He paused at the door. “Drive safe, you two.”

 

They both watched, too bewildered to speak, as Jorah pulled down the dusty drive, tires crunching and suspension creaking.

 

After the tail lights of the prowler had disappeared down the hill, Jon turned back to Dany, looking as stunned as he felt. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” she sighed, “yeah. I’m just…”

 

“Freaked out?” Jon supplied as he sat down next to her. She nodded and he felt his heart sink in guilt. “I’m sorry Dany. This is all my fault.”

 

She shook her head, looking to her cuticles. To Jon’s great shock and horror, she looked like she was about to cry. He scooted his chair closer, putting both his hands on her thighs, trying to get her to at least _look_ at him.

 

“Dany?” he asked, “it’s going to be fine. I’m not going to be thrown in jail or anything—“

 

“It’s not that,” she cut across him with a shake of her head, her voice a little broken. “It’s just… I wish I could be a normal fucking person,” she spat, her proverbial hackles rising, her brow knitting together in frustration. “A cop showing up shouldn’t… freak me out so much.”

 

She wasn’t disappointed, or even sad or shaken. She was fucking _angry_. Jon could see it flaming behind her eyes, hot and hungry and ready to tear it all down.

 

He licked his lips, his mouth gone dry, taking in the sight of her sitting before him in _his_ deck chair on _his_ porch, swallowed up in _his_ old ratty Queens of the Stone Age tee shirt, bright-eyed and red-cheeked and so fucking beautiful. He hastily pulled himself together with a little shake of his head. There was something else going on here that he clearly was too slow to pick up on.

 

“Dany,” he began levelly, not wanting to provoke the wrath bubbling under her skin, “what’s going on?”

 

It was just about as vague of a question as you could get, but she seemed to understand well enough. Her shoulders fell, some of her fury leaking away. “When you were off calving... I had a run-in with our friend Deputy Mormont.”

 

Jon felt his blood run cold. He did not gather an altogether flattering opinion of the man in their brief meeting, so, naturally, this led to the word “run-in” ricocheting in his brain like a fucking shotgun blast.

 

Some of this had to have shown in his face, for Dany went on swiftly: “Nothing bad happened, Jon, it was just a broken tail light.”

 

He released a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. “Olenna’s car?” She nodded. “Missy with you?” She nodded again. “That’s a relief.” He paused, turning this information over. “That doesn’t exactly explain why you’re so upset.”

 

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes, looking ashamed-- strangely guilty. “I’m fucked up, Jon, I see threats everywhere... but I’ve also been dealing with this cloak-and-dagger shit for a long time. Too long.” The last words were nearly a growl. She curled her hand into a fist on her thigh. “I have good instincts, and Jorah set off some… alarms. I had Tyrion look into him.”

 

“And?”

 

“Nothing,” Dany replied defeatedly. “Besides a bankruptcy a few years back and his… sudden resignation from the Atlanta PD, he’s as clean as a whistle.”

 

“Atlanta PD?” he inquired. That was some serious shit, not the cushy suburban gig Jon had assumed Jorah had before this. Big city cops never did well in small towns, and usually didn’t have the considerable chip on their shoulders that Jorah sported. “When did he resign? Any reason given?”

 

She shook her head. “He was on leave for ‘personal reasons’ for about three weeks before he resigned a few months ago and moved out here. Tyrion assumes it was his divorce, but I just don’t get it…” She bit her lip, lost in thought. “He worked there nearly four years after his divorce— 21 years total.”

 

Jon gave a low whistle. He didn’t know much about the nature of police work, but he imagined that Jorah Mormont had seen some shit during his tenure and must have had a hefty pension waiting for him for his trouble. There’s no way he’d just walk away from that without good reason.

 

“There’s something else,” Dany went on, a bit cautious, maybe even afraid. “My brother… the last time I heard from him-- was from a Fulton County jail two years ago.” She paused, looked down at where she was knotting her fingers. “Fulton County is the county that Atlanta is in.”

 

Jon sat, wide eyed and stunned and _scared_ and-- he couldn’t possibly feel all these things without simply flying apart. He leaned forward, running his hands over his face, raking his fingers through his hair, pinching the bridge of his nose-- anything that might ground him, bring him spinning back to earth.

 

“Did you tell Tyrion about this?” he finally asked.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And he didn’t think that that was fucked up?”

 

She shrugged. “He thought it was suspicious, but just not something actionable. The only way to run Mormont out of town is to either find some sort of dirt as leverage, or some smudge on his service record to bring to Davos and the county.” She sighed and looked to the roof of the porch in exasperation. “I don’t think I have to explain to you how hard it is to get a cop in trouble.”

 

He fell silent at this, helplessness swamping him like a noxious fume. It was not a feeling he was particularly comfortable with. He felt the dread truly settling in, creeping up his spine, and he hung his head in the face of it.

 

“I’m sorry for not telling you,” Dany whispered, brushing a curl behind his ear and smiling sadly as he lifted his head to look at her. _God_ , he wanted nothing more than to snatch her up, carry her away, _far_ away, where trouble would never find her again. “When Tyrion came up empty, I didn’t want to worry you over me just being creeped out. I wanted to at least _try_ to stay positive and not assume the worst.”

 

He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair in defeat. He wished that he could tell her that her fears were unwarranted, that she was just being paranoid and Jorah was just dick-waving his way into a new town and all this fuckery was mere coincidence. But he couldn’t. He was never very good at lying.

 

He looked back at her and his lips twitched. “I guess you’ve learned your lesson.”

 

She barked a shocked laugh. “What lesson?”

 

“Not to ignore your gut.”

 

“So you agree with me?” she asked quickly, eyes wide in disbelief.

 

“Of course.” He had had his own misgivings since that night at the brewery, but he’d come to the same conclusion Dany had about Mormont-- he didn’t want her to worry. Didn’t want to wreck things further with his own weird suspicions. “Tanner is a shithead, but he’d never go to the cops… unless something else is going on.”

 

“He seemed hell-bent on pissing you off that night, too.”

 

He nodded. “Again, he is a shithead, but he hasn’t tried to pull any of that with me in years.”

 

They fell silent for a time, both contemplating this new state of affairs, the newly forged path before them, full of blind curves and pitfalls.

 

He sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’m sorry,” he repeated quietly. “I fucked it all up.”

 

“What did you fuck up?”

 

He blinked at her, confused. “If you think you have a dirty cop after you, we _definitely_ can’t go to Missoula now. If he’s in cahoots, he’s probably already tipping us off to whoever he really works for.”

 

“We never told him where we were going,” she pointed out calmly.

 

“I know, but Dany, we’re talking _law enforcement_ here,” he stated firmly. “We cannot fuck around. He has access to resources we don’t. It’s too risky.”

 

“That’s not true.”

 

“What’s not true?”

 

“We have resources, too,” she answered, pulling out her phone.

 

He shook his head. “I don’t think even Tyrion can get us out of this one, Dany.”

 

She had the phone to her ear already. He could hear the sound of it ringing on the other end. “I think I have a plan.”

 

+++

 

They had their first real, true fight before they left.

 

Almost as soon as Tyrion had hung up (after a very long, very heated conversation) Dany looked at Jon with a raised eyebrow, as if trying to say _just try to stop me, old man._

 

Jon was known for many things, but holding his tongue when it came to the people he loved was not one of them, so he went ahead and tried to stop her anyway. Again, he brought up Davos. His long-time friend would surely help them, would never tolerate any sort of funny business in his precinct.

 

But this time she truly shot him down. “If Jorah is being blackmailed, if he’s working for the the type of company my brother has been known to keep, he’s liable to kill us both outright before he gets in hot water. He _absolutely_ cannot know that we may be onto him.”

 

He was so irritated by the accuracy of this statement, that he might have panicked a bit. Thinking about not only a shady cop, but a _blackmailed_ cop-- desperate and willing to do anything to save his own skin being after her… he resorted to flatly refusing to go through with it.

 

“I won’t do it,” he claimed with a growl. “I won’t let you go willingly into the crosshairs and you _can’t_ do it without me.”

 

That proved to be one of the dumber decisions of his life, already replete with dumb decisions as it was.

 

She bristled like a puma, loudly reminding him that this was the best chance they had, the best chance at ending it all and having a “normal fucking relationship.” Then, quite suddenly, she dissolved into tears as she wailed apologies to him and sank into the couch.

 

“You deserve better,” she choked out, swiping at her eyes.

 

He was so insulted by that, that she should ever think herself unworthy of him-- of _anyone_ , all his doubt and uncertainty and abject _fear_ fled him quick as a startled hare. He strode forward and snatched her up, yanking her from the couch and into him, his hold perhaps too tight, his voice perhaps too fierce as he whispered in her hair: “ _Don’t_.”

 

She let out a mighty breath, curled her hands into fists in his tee. “I need to protect you, too, Jon.”

 

And just like that, all was forgiven and he was hers. All in. He sealed the promise with a kiss he hoped she could feel in her very bones.

 

How could he deny her anything, now?

 

+++

 

“I really fucking hope this works.”

 

“That’s about the tenth time you’ve said that,” Dany replied blithely while she rummaged in her bag for her phone charger. For what good it did. There wasn’t a lick of service out here.

 

He blew out a frustrated breath, choosing not answer as he concentrated on the road.

 

The sun was just starting to leech the night away, and to the west the sharp peaks of the Rockies emerged from the indigo gloom, pale and pearlescent with the first touch of day. Stars were winking out all around them like guttering candles. The highway hummed under the tires, the wind whistled through the cracked windows, and the land smelt new and wild out here. This was sovereign country, and these hills were hallowed.

 

Charger extracted, she plugged it into the cigarette lighter and glanced at her screen. No service, apparently, for she tossed it into the center console with a huff.

 

“Good thing we have this thing,” she said with a wave of her hand to the very much stolen and very expensive ham radio sitting a bit too precariously on his dashboard. He had left a note on a Post-It in its place for his sister, who would no doubt rip him a new one when they returned. _Just borrowing. It will be back, promise. Love, your idiot brother._

 

“Aye,” he answered, glancing behind him, where the SAT phone was wedged behind the back of his seat and the rear wall of the cab, just in case. That had been exchanged for an even sorrier excuse for a note: _Need SAT phone too. Will explain later. Have I told you lately that I love you?_ “We’re just about as prepared as we can be.”

She sighed, crossing her legs in her seat, glancing in the rearview for the dozenth time.

 

“Anything?” he asked.

 

She shook her head, looking perturbed. “I mean, I know Tyrion’s PI is out there somewhere… but no, I don’t see anyone.”

 

“We don’t have to do this, you know,” he said gently, reaching out to place a hand over her knee.

 

She shook her head, a determined line to her mouth that he knew better than to argue with.

 

“Yes, we do,” she nearly growled. “Something has to be done, Jon. You know as well as I do. We can’t… go on like this. This is not sustainable.” She looked at him, eyes sparking in the aurora glow of daybreak, alight with something that was both triumphant and terrifying. He had to fight to keep his eyes on the road. “I’m going to finish this.”

 

“ _We_ are,” he corrected, his heart thumping at the top of his throat. He had to bite his tongue, swallow those three damnable words down yet again.

 

She turned her face back to him, the smile on her lips telling him everything he needed to know. “ _We_ are going to finish this,” she amended.

 

They rode along in silence for a time, the situation too tense for music.

 

They were taking just about the longest way to Missoula that you possibly could, without going extreme with it-- straight through the Flat Head reservation, where the light laid just a bit different, the laws of man bound to deeper things. The mountains were softer, rounded under the might of nature for millenia, frilled with black trees and carpeted in yellow prairie, dyed the color of twilight in the odd half-light of dawn. Barbed wire fence stretched endlessly on either side, hemming in the wild from the straight and narrow highway, puckered and seamed from hard winters and baking summers.

 

The radio hissed and sizzled, piercing through the thickening quiet. “Come in, CQ, this is W-9 GFO. You copy?” an unfamiliar, gruff voice floated through the whir of static.

 

Jon picked up the receiver, his blood kicking up in his veins. Yet another variable he was not prepared for, or very happy about. Tyrion had mentioned a so-called ‘contract worker’ that he could recruit to their cause. He was a long-haul trucker with flexible scruples and a hell of a temper who worked for Tyrion on the side. He was described as a ‘loyal attack dog’ and Jon wasn’t so sure about relying on a stranger, let alone a stranger that fit that particular description.

 

“Copy, W-9 GFO, this is CQ. What’s your status? Over.”

 

“Copy, CQ, just stopped at mile marker 58, over.”

 

Jon paused, watching as mile “52” flickered past. He clicked on the receiver. “Copy that, W-9 GFO, coming up on 53 now, over.”

 

“Copy that, CQ. The entrance is three miles past, over.”

 

“Copy that.”

 

“Copy. Over and out.”

 

“Over and out.”

 

He hung up the receiver as Dany peered at him, an odd twist to her mouth and her eyebrows raised questioningly.

 

“What?” he asked with a laugh.

“Nothing,” she replied airly. “You’re just full of surprises, old man.” She shot him a suggestive look that made him clear his throat. _Was she turned on by his, as his dear sister would put it, ‘laughable’ radio skills?_ “The hell were those letters and numbers and all that?” she asked after a pause.

 

“Call signs,” he answered with a shrug. “The one for Stark Ranch is old as hell so it only has two letters. It’s kind of like… a signature. This guy’s call sign is more standard nowadays.”

 

She looked like she wanted to ask more, her face burning with curiosity, but instead she turned her gaze back to the road. After a bout of silence, she perked up, straightening in her seat.

 

“There he is,” she said as she pointed to the dim form of an 18-wheeler parked on the shoulder looming into the headlights. There was a line of orange traffic triangles around the back that glared brilliant and white. The massive front hood stood open on its hydraulic hinges for good measure.

 

Jon looked over at her as they whooshed past. She was craning her neck, peering behind her, as if she could catch sight of their mysterious ally.

 

“Hey,” he murmured and she turned back to look at him. “You ready?”

 

She took up his hand that had been resting on the gear shift and squeezed, placed her other hand over the gun holstered and waiting in the passenger door pocket.

 

She looked back out the windshield, her eyes far away. “Yes.”

 

+++

 

His neck was twinging, elbows going numb in the rocky ground. He turned his head, blowing a curious horsefly away from his ear before peering through the scope again.

 

He’d only done this a handful of times in his life. And even then, it was hunting the rare, intrepid puma who dared to wander onto their range, or the bolder timber wolves that snuck down from Canada looking for easy pickings.

 

He watched as Dany sat by the little army surplus tent, far down the gray scree slope where he was perched. Their makeshift campsite made for a paltry sight in the tawny glade below. She was poking at the cinders of the fire, looking convincingly bored, but also glaringly deadly-- a bandolier of shells across her chest and a pistol at her hip. Maybe a bit overkill, but they (and especially he) didn’t want to give her would-be kidnappers any reason to think that she was harmless.

 

She looked a proper vision of some spaghetti western femme fatale, and he had to curse at himself for being so distracted by her at a time like this.

 

He checked the flare gun laying by his trigger hand unnecessarily, idle, nervous, feeling quite useless way up here.

 

Their plan was simple… in a way. The past year, reservation police were operating on high alert, what with neighboring Idaho practically engulfed in flames since April. Fires were strictly prohibited in the back-country campsites of steppe and prairie. The drought-stricken land was naught but tinder. If they were lucky, there were already authorities on their way-- likely on horseback or by Jeep-- modes of transportation much quicker and stealthier than that of the highway, some six miles east.

 

Tyrion’s ‘dog’ was to radio Dany when he saw the car (the description provided via Tyrion’s PI, hopefully), giving them a good half hour warning.

 

Dany, much to his dismay and terror, was to be the bait, holding them off with her own arsenal of considerable wit and wiles until the reservation authorities arrived. The law functioned a bit different out here, a fact that Dany’s pursuers were likely woefully unprepared for.

 

This way, they’d get away with nothing more than a trip to the precinct, a fire citation and an adrenaline rush. Reservation police would no doubt contact the state police, as kidnap— attempted or otherwise— was no laughing matter. Montana would then (hopefully) look far less appetizing to an Atlanta crime ring, no matter the money at stake.

 

If things got _real_ bad, he was to be her back up, her death from above.

 

The flare gun at his side was Plan Fucking Z. Tyrion’s ‘dog’ was on the lookout and ready to swoop in with guns blazing in case things got truly fucked. A far messier course of action.

 

But they’d never considered _this_ particular option.

 

“What’s the word?” he said into his walkie, unable to withstand it any longer.

 

“Nothing yet,” her voice chirped through the mouthpiece.

 

He sighed and grumbled, hanging his head. It had been far too long with no word or sign from anyone.  

 

“Tyrion’s PI says that he didn’t see a tail on us, but to wait it out in case he missed it,” Dany continued in his ear.

 

“ _Missed it?_ ” he exclaimed, voice ringing off the rock face at his back.

 

“I’d advise against shouting.”

 

“What if this PI _did_ miss it, Dany?” he asked worriedly, taking his voice down to just above a whisper. “How’s this ‘dog’ supposed to signal us if he doesn’t even know what the fucking car looks like?”

 

She hesitated. He watched as she looked over her shoulder and peered down the rutted and pitted lane. It was some small miracle his old truck made it out here, honestly. “I don’t know, Jon... all I know is that Tyrion told us to stay low.”

 

He huffed, entirely unconvinced and growing ever more agitated by the second.

 

Another 40 minutes crawled painfully by. He watched a shiny black cedar beetle trundle past, a little pebbled lizard race up a tree. Jon could feel his neck burning under the sun when he spotted a trail of dust to the east.

 

He scrabbled for the walkie. “Dany, car at three o’clock.”

 

He watched as she stood up and shielded her eyes from the mid-morning sun, looking to the east. “I see it.”

 

“Did you hear anything from the ‘dog’?”

 

There was a beat of silence. He already knew the answer. She would have radioed him if she had heard anything. “No.”

 

He cursed, his heart leaping into action, thudding against his ribs so rapidly it nearly stole his breath. He looked through his scope, watching the dust trail float closer and closer, praying to anything that was listening that it was reservation police.

 

No such luck.

 

From the scrubby sage and stunted pines came a circa 1980s green Cutlass, struggling mightily in the rough terrain.

 

He bowed his head, snatching up his scattering wits before they escaped him completely. Then he brought his eye back to the scope, loosing one long breath through his nose as he adjusted his grip, steadied his hands.

 

Dany was still standing on the track, looking solid and unafraid, the walkie hastily hidden under her waistband. Had to make their visitors think she was alone.

 

The car slowed to a stop before her, yellow dust billowing behind it in the morning breeze. Jon watched as a plump bald man exited the driver seat slowly, hands held out above his head, strangely enough.

 

Jon wasn’t going to be fooled. He settled further into his position, inched his finger closer to the trigger.

 

He watched through the crosshairs as Dany and the bald man exchanged words. After a moment, she stretched out her arm, palm upturned, as if telling him to give her something. The man, very slowly and very carefully, divulged something from his coat pocket as he glanced up uncannily close to Jon’s position. He chambered his shot in response.

 

The man produced what looked to be a wallet and held it out between two fingers. Dany closed the gap between them quickly and snatched the wallet from the man’s hand. She immediately marched back to her previous position as she studied it, never turning her back from the stranger.

 

_That’s my girl_.

 

He watched as she rifled through the contents of the wallet and then looked back to the man, standing unruffled in front of his car with his hands still upraised. Suddenly she turned towards the slope, waving her arms above her head. _Stand down._

 

He lifted his face from the scope, utterly lost. “It’s okay, it’s Tyrion’s PI,” her voice filtered from the walkie beside him. He hesitated, not trusting this for a second. “Jon, it’s fine. Come down here so we can talk.”

 

Dread still clawing in his gut, he finally released himself from his crouch, and began disassembling his gun.

 

+++

 

Dany upended the gallon of water over the tiny fire and it hissed and crackled its death, of no use anymore.

 

“You’re sure about this?” Jon asked, elbows on his knees, hands fidgeting as he sat tensely on an obliging stump.

 

The bald man shrugged. Varys, was his name. “As certain as I can be, all things considered, Mr. Snow.” The man had a queer, soft way of speaking, an accent that Jon could not identify. It only served to put him more on edge.

 

“I find it hard to believe we weren’t followed,” Dany pointed out as she lifted the bandolier over her head and piled it into the alarming amount of ammo and arms gathered in the duffel bag at her feet.

 

“There was one other option left to Deputy Mormont and his… alleged employer,” Varys replied coolly, hands folded in front of him, “and it looks as though they have chosen to go with Plan B.”

 

“Plan B?” Jon asked, fear inching its way up his spine.

 

Varys carefully found himself a seat on a nearby rock, deciding that this may take awhile. “Not only was Deputy Mormont able to observe your plans for a holiday, but he was _also_ able to take note of where you live, Mr. Snow. Which I do believe is exceedingly remote?”

 

Jon has nothing to say to this, his mouth seemingly full of sand. He chanced a glance at Dany, who looked equally shaken.

 

“Why give chase when you can simply wait?” the man went on mildly, picking a leaf from his pressed charcoal slacks. Varys stuck out like a sore thumb out here.

 

Jon found his voice again, though he had to clear his throat. “And what do we do about that?”

 

“Hard to say,” Varys answered, “but I _do_ know that to go back now would be... ill-advised.”

 

“I’m banished from my own fucking house?” Jon protested loudly.

 

Varys inclined his head. “In a way, Mr. Snow. And most especially Miss Targaryen here.”

 

Jon cursed, bolting to his feet, pacing and pulling at his hair. Dany looked ready to spit fire, or fall to the ground and weep-- he wasn’t sure which.

 

“I have a plan, but it would require us switching cars,” Varys went on as if nothing had happened. He pulled out a tiny bottle of Purell from his jacket pocket and squirted a large dollop onto his palm.

 

“What do you mean _switch cars?_ ” Jon exclaimed. He _knew_ that his emotions were getting the better of him, were dragging him under a deadly torrent, but god _damnit_ he was so fucking tired. He couldn’t fight the current any longer.

 

Varys straightened from his perch and strode toward them both, standing tense and unsure some feet away with fear, anxiety and determination coursing between them like a circuit.

 

“If Mormont’s watching the ranch, he’ll tip off whoever is no doubt on their way to Winterfell as we speak, and send them your way as soon as he catches sight of that handsome truck there.” He nodded to Jon’s decidedly _un_ handsome truck parked behind them.

 

Jon darted his eyes at Dany in question. “A decoy,” she supplied.

 

Varys inclined his head, bouncing on the balls of his shiny-booted feet. “Precisely, Miss Targaryen. All I would need is an innocent-enough call into the sheriff’s department… perhaps Mr. Snow forgot to turn the oven off, or something else wholly unassuming.”

 

The gears clicked home in his brain quite suddenly. “I’m not sending Davos into a nest of gangsters,” he growled.

 

Varys held his hand up, shaking his head once. “I assure you, Mr. Snow, there will be no such thing.” He pulled a kerchief from his pants pocket and blotted his bald head with it. “Knowing the criminal world as I do, if these people’s goal is to kidnap Miss Targaryen here, it will be a small, precise operation. One, maybe two people.”

 

Jon did not like it, not one fucking bit. “So, what do _we_ do? Wait here while everyone else does the work for us? While we put everyone _else_ in danger?”

 

Varys smiled thinly at him, taking a step closer, crowding him a bit. “Tyrion told me about you, White Wolf,” he said with a tone that Jon did not quite know what to do with. “And, let me assure you, though you may be a lethal, capable man, you are no match for these people. _Especially_ if they prove to be who I think they are.”

 

Jon felt his blood drain to his feet as Dany gasped from beside him. “Who do you think they are?” she asked shakily, vainly trying to keep the abject worry from her voice.

 

“That is none of your concern, now, is it?” Varys replied, a bit coldly for Jon’s liking. The man shrugged. “Suffice it to say that we _do_ hold some small advantage-- being so terribly far from his territory as to be quite a nuisance, _if_ my suspicions prove true, of course-- which they normally do.” He smiled thinly, amused. “He does not have the network and connections in the Wild West that he does back home, and we must capitalize on such… vulnerabilities.”

 

All parties were silent for some time. Jon was trapped in some sort of suspended animation. The danger Dany was in was even far graver than they had estimated and it made him want to scream and kick and claw, to empty his magazine into a tree stump, to grab her by the waist and fuck like there was nothing else for it. And there wasn’t, really. Not after she had sat in that ticket booth by some fucking miracle seven months ago.

 

“Anyway,” Varys began, his honeyed voice crashing into his troubled reverie, “should you start packing the car?”

 

“And what are _we_ supposed to do?” Jon asked, “stay out here and just… _wait_?”

 

“It doesn’t matter much to me,” Varys replied with a sniff. “The farther away from Winterfell the better, honestly. I believe you two _do_ have an appointment in a few hours?”

 

Jon blinked at him, entirely lost for a moment before he remembered the appointment at the clinic. “You _want_ us to go to Missoula?” Varys nodded, as if that were obvious. “What are _you_ going to be doing? How am I supposed to know when to call the sheriff?”

 

Varys rolled his eyes, as if very tired of the conversation and Jon’s contant prying. “I won’t be going back to Winterfell immediately. Have to give the right hands time to arrive, after all, as well as not raise any of Deputy Mormont’s suspicions.” He sighed, going to his car and pulling open the trunk and dragging a briefcase and a gun case from it. “The Hound will fill you in with the details. He’ll be… around if you two _do_ somehow manage to find trouble along the way.”

 

Jon was not much of a betting man, but with their track record, he’d take that bet any day.

 

+++

 

The Cutlass proved to be a very uncomfortable ride before they made it onto the highway. The tosses and jumps, the groans and slips of the engine, the dust plumes kicked up from Jon’s truck as Varys drove before them (a bit too roughly for Jon’s liking)-- it only served to intensify the silence, the foreboding and general unfortunate nature of their circumstances.

 

When they finally made it onto the tamed highway, Varys turned north as Jon turned south. He glanced in his rearview, seeing the lights of reservation Jeeps pull into the track they had just exited from.

 

He looked over at Dany nervously. She had spoken only when absolutely necessary as they broke camp and packed up Varys’ car. And even then, it was simple, one- to two-word answers with her teeth clenched together, as if she were afraid that she might scream if she opened her mouth any more than that.

 

Jon could relate, but her seething silence was only making him feel worse.

 

She was stiff as a board, sitting in the passenger seat with her arm leaned against the lip of the window, her fingers furrowed in her wind-rippled silver hair while she watched the countryside roll by as if hypnotized.

 

“Used to spend a lot of falls and springs in this place,” he said quietly, looking to the east, where he knew there to be endless fields laden with corn, wheat and canola, and little split-wood farmhouses and dusty yards with squealing children and squawking hens.

 

Dany looked over at him, a bit surprised at his abrupt confession, but mostly curious. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. “Why?” she asked as she propped her socked feet on the dash.

 

He threw a shoulder up, his heart twinging a bit at the memories the flooded him, though he always did enjoy his time here.

 

“My father used to have friends here-- working relationships with ranchers and farmers that turned into friendships.” He cleared his throat, throwing her a look. “And while I was still too young to go on the round-up, or join in the calvings… I stayed here, with a Kutenai family my Pa trusted.”

 

Dany’s face darkened, her throat working as she turned her face away. He knew he didn’t have to explain why his father would have elected to send Jon away while he was off the ranch, and not simply leave him with his siblings at the house.

 

“It wasn’t so bad, really,” he comforted, laying confidence in his voice to make it stick. “It was more for… well, more for my benefit than Cat’s. I learned _so_ much, Dany. No one knows their horses like the Kutenai-- any plains people, really. They’re the ones that gifted me Ghost, the spring before I was to go on my first round-up.”

 

He smiled fondly at the memory. Ghost had been a rescue, a skittish, moody thing that gravitated to Jon almost immediately. Kindred spirits, he supposed.

 

“And, besides,” he continued, “it was better than being--” he stopped, sensing the ratcheting tension in the tiny space of the cab. It wouldn’t matter what he said, Dany would never forgive Cat for a lick of it. He reached over and curled his fingers around her thigh. “Anyway... I have a special love for this place.”

 

She blew out a breath, leaning her head against the back of the seat. “Jon,” she began, voice oddly small. She turned her face to look at him again. “What do you want?”

 

His hand on the wheel nearly twitched them into the other side of the road. “What?”

 

She paused again, blinking as she looked blankly out the windscreen. “What do you want… from life?”

 

Jon gritted his teeth, withdrew his hand from her leg to steady his failing grip on the steering wheel.

 

They’d talked idly of travelling the world together, of what movies they wanted to go see, what weird (and not so weird) foods they wanted to try. They’d always been a little drunk, a little giddy, whenever it happened-- letting their guard down, pretending that everything was just peachy. That they were simply kids in love, with little to weigh them down and nothing at all would ever trouble them in the future. None of these late night wonderings and dreamings had ever been concrete; all was laid down carefully, in abstract, fanciful terms, followed by scoffs or giggles or wrinkled noses.

 

She had her own reasons for not making promises, but those reasons seemed to have an end point-- as distant and unattainable as it all seemed. He also had _his_ reasons, but those reasons were not so mutable, were much messier and cumbersome, too tedious to pick through in order to find anything good from them. He had hoped to avoid facing that fact for at least a little while yet.

 

“I know that… maybe you don’t want to talk about that now,” she continued in light of his silence, knowing him so well he wanted to curse. “But… Jon, when this is all over… I need to know… _what you want._ ” She glanced at him, a bit nervous, before looking at her hands. “I know you love your family, the ranch-- and I love it, too… but I can’t help feeling that you want _more_. And I… I want to know what that is.”

 

He gazed out the windshield, and the cab was filled with nothing but the thrum of tarmac and the creak of an old suspension. Somewhere to the west, a host of carrion birds were gathering, great, grisly kites riding the morning thermals .

 

“I’ve tried my whole life to never really think about it, Dany,” he finally said, a bit too defeated for his liking. “Life out here… it’s as beautiful as it’s tragic.”

 

He glanced over at her, and to his immense surprise she seemed… _understanding_ , her eyes downcast in some sort of commiserating reverie. He sighed heavily, adjusting his grip to the odd steering wheel, his nose to the acrid scent of pine and sanitizer.

 

“Books, movies, TV… they romanticize this life. It’s beautiful and breathtaking and, yeah, in a way I guess it is… _romantic_. Not many people get to live like this. But, people around here, Dany… they live with a chain ‘round their neck. You live and die in the saddle. It’s rough work. You beat your body to bloody ribbons.”

 

He shook his head, the ire he had managed to tamp down inside him bubbling to the surface again. “My father— he was the greatest man I ever knew… but he was… _warped_ by this life. Run thin and ragged.”

 

There was a small, tense silence. Jon fiddled idly with the AC in the rising summer heat.

 

“Jon,” Dany began, voice small and unsure. “How did your father die?”

 

He was silent for a long while, not really knowing how to answer, feeling his palms clam up against the vinyl of the steering wheel. “My siblings and I… we think he was murdered.”

 

“ _Murdered?_ ” she gasped. “By who?”

 

“Don’t really know,” he confessed sadly. “Can’t prove a damn thing, but… it’s what we know in our guts.” He paused again, chewing his lip, wondering if he should voice the old, worn suspicion he had carried in his heart for nearly five years. “If we had to point any fingers, it’d be to Deepwood.”

 

She looked over at him, eyes alive with an anger he had never seen from her before. “Tanner.”

 

Jon shook his head with a grimace. “I don’t think even Tanner would be dumb or bold enough to do something like that.”

 

He fell silent, turning it all over in his head painfully, and she waited, patient as ever. He had tried very hard not to think of that night for a very, very long time. About how Robb and he had shouted their voices away looking for their father within the wild borders of their land. How dead-eyed and shell-shocked his sisters had been when they had returned from their own search route, Arya clutching their Pa’s blood-spattered hat in both her hands, face as white as a sheet. Bran screaming into Cat’s chest as she clutched her son like he was the only thing holding her to the earth. And Rickon, little Rickon, whimpering and sniffing, toddling on his chubby little legs between him and Sansa confusedly-- because _where was Pa?_ _He was really very late for supper and he’d make everything alright._

 

Jon felt the burn behind his eyes all too soon. He blinked rapidly, his voice coming out rougher than he wished.

 

“But it was all just… it was too much.” He shook his head, trying to gather himself. “Whoever it was tried to make it look like a puma attack, but they didn’t do a very good job. Puma would’ve dragged him off. We never would’ve found him.” He blew out a long breath, willing himself to go on. “He was with his friend Robert, but they never found hide nor hair of him, ‘cept his gun. That’s why the puma attack held so much water with law enforcement-- but Pa _and_ Robert together? Puma wouldn’t stand a chance… much less kill ‘em both.”

 

There was another very brief, but very intense silence. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

 

Jon shook his head. “You’re new here, Dany, so you don’t know… there’s a hell of a lot of politics in cattle rearing,” he replied darkly, shaking his head. “My pa wasn’t the the first good man to be killed over a scrap of land or a head of cattle, and he won’t be the last.”

 

Dany’s brow crinkled in confusion. “I don’t understand, though,” she went on slowly, “if the motive was for land or cattle or money… they obviously didn’t win the prize they were looking for.”

 

Jon managed a dark laugh at that. “Yeah, they didn’t factor in _us_ ,” he said bitterly. “Most ranches will cave within a year without solid leadership, but Robb stepped in and Sansa dropped out of college to help out. Between the two of them-- and even Cat-- no one was going to lay a finger on one acre of that ranch.”

 

“And you.”

 

“And me?” he asked.

 

“You helped,” she replied simply, reaching a hand over to rest on his knee. It was very warm from where it had been tucked in the crook of her own. “You helped to keep the ranch.”

 

He blinked at her, stunned at her confidence in him, her unwavering, unasked-for faith that he struggled to maintain even within himself. He looked away, smile quirking in his mouth. “Aye,” he said quietly, “I suppose I did.”

 

“You need to stop doing that,” she continued gently, fingers squeezing into his leg.

 

“What?”

 

“Underestimating yourself.”

 

He cleared his throat, feeling oddly heartened and humbled all at the same time. “I’ll try.”

 

Her thumb wandered over the space between his thigh and kneecap. She looked back up at him and he swallowed at the vision of her-- girded in mid-morning gold, mica-spangled and wind-tossed. He thought of that bandolier, glinting across her chest in the wasteland sun like a jeweled sash. A dread warning sign, like a rattler in the brush. He’d always held a strange fondness for the creatures-- lethal but reluctantly so, just like him. Just like her.

 

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she said softly, voice full of all the things he could not think about now. She sank back into her seat, as he was not strong enough to conjure a proper response to her in that moment. She hummed in a curious, tilted way. “You never finished answering my question.”

 

He tore his eyes away from her, twitching the wheel back to center as the car had started to stray into the double yellow lines, the divots of the sleeper line groaning loudly under the tires in a racket that brought him crashing back to earth. “I didn’t?”

 

She shook her head slowly, an odd, serene smile on her lips. “You were saying something about cowboying not being all that it’s cracked up to be.”

 

He barked a laugh as he shook his head. They were making their way out of the reservation now, the country turning more mountainous, more touristy. They passed a mini golf place to their left. He’d gone there with Ygritte once. They’d fought for almost all of the 12 holes.

 

“It’s a life that is hard to escape,” he went on, merging onto I-90. “It’s passed from generation to generation. You aren't exactly _allowed_ to think of grander things.”

 

He looked over at her at her harsh intake of breath, alarmed. He lowered his shoulders at what he saw, curled up like a cat in the seat next to him. Suddenly she wasn’t strong, fierce, ‘don’t need no man’ Dany. She was just a girl, trapped in a grand manse in what might as well been a world away, her future not fully her own. He brushed a palm over the crown of her downturned head.

 

“I’m guessing you may know something about that,” he murmured gently.

 

She let out a sound that could have been a sob, but it sounded more like a mighty breath of relief. She swiped at her eyes with the too-long sleeves of his thermal she was wearing. She was always garbing herself in his things, his scent. The thought made his heart a painful thing to hold within him.

 

He sat silently for a moment, trying to consider how to say what he wanted to next, without crossing any of those weird, precarious boundaries they had etched around each other. “When I was with Ygritte… she loved the ranch life. She wanted nothing more. And I thought, for a long time, that I was just fine with that.”

 

She looked up at him, eyes still over-bright, question writ large on her beautiful face, red and blotchy as it was.

 

He looked away again, eyes roving the ragged horizon. There were storm clouds ahead, purple as a bruise. He reached his hand out, needing a grounding wire all of a sudden, cupping her knee within his hand. He tried not to think of how small she was, how tiny and delicate, as he felt the diminutive, half-dollar imprint of her patella in his palm.

 

“My siblings… they grew up knowing exactly who they were and, more importantly, who they were _going_ to be. Sansa was the only one who ever had her doubts, but she came back. And Bran… well, he’s always been an odd one. Cut from a different cloth. He’s not well-suited for ranch life-- but _I_ am. I’m damn good at it. Have to pay my keep, after all.” He took a great breath, fingers twitching at the top of her thigh. He looked to his right, where a peeling, cockeyed sign bidding visitors farewell from the reservation flickered past. He felt a queer jolt in his gut.

 

“Jon,” Dany said softly, fingers curling over his own in reassurance.

 

He coughed, looking back to the road, eyes strangely warm, electricity humming where his hand was joined with hers.

 

“I always imagined a place with horses. Just horses, no damn cows,” he clarified with a flash of a smile, though it felt odd on his face. “The Kutenai family I stayed with… they-- well, they taught me about horses. Everything you could possibly think to know about them… they taught me. How to train them, care for them, ride them without a saddle… how to-- _talk_ to them. And-- I’ve just loved them ever since. I’d love to… I don’t know-- _rescue_ them, care for them… something. If I’m honest, I don’t give a damn about cows… but the horses are enough to keep me there. And my family of course,” he amended with a stiff laugh.

 

There was silence for long awhile. Dany gazed out the window, watching as a giant circular irrigation arm trundled its slow course over the canola it was feeding. “Was there… anything else?” she said quietly.

 

He cleared his throat, not expecting this, the prolonged silence having lulled him into a sense of finality. “Uh, a house… nothing fancy. I’d like to have a room with lots of books. Some place to watch movies. A garden, maybe. Always wanted to have a garden. Pa used to grow great big pumpkins in the kitchen garden.” He shook his head with a sad little laugh. “Miss those things.”

 

She curled her tear-damp fingers into his own, lips pulled over her teeth, but she remained silent, letting him continue his catharsis unabated.

 

“A home brew setup would be nice, too,” he mused.

 

She laughed at that. “Would save you some money.”

 

“Aye,” he snorted. He looked over at her, his lovely, dainty little lady that had slid both slow and fast into his life, sitting as easy as you please in a strange car that was now theirs for the weekend, stroking his scarred knuckles absently as if they were polished, precious stones.

 

She had found a space he had seemingly been reserving for her. Had nestled herself under his very bones, settling deep and unmovable, as fierce and stubborn as a sleeping Grizzly.

 

He was overcome-- he had to take a great breath, remind himself that the road was still moving under the tires, that dread things and hidden ghosts still lay in their path.

 

“You’re the first person, Dany, to ever make me think that… I might deserve any of that,” he pressed on, braver than he felt. He took another breath, rushing headlong forward. Nothing else for it, now. “And I want you to know… that recently, I’ve been thinking about that house more. And I have a woman in that house, now, with the books and the horses and the pumpkins… and she looks an awful lot like you.”

 

He felt her fingers tighten over his own, her knuckles gone white. Her eyes were slammed shut, lip pinched between her teeth as she tried not to cry out.

 

“I’m sorry, Dany,” he murmured, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

She shook her head with a little gasp, a smile fighting itself onto her mouth through her tears. “Don’t be sorry about that, Jon. Don’t ever be sorry for what you you just said.”

 

A resonance passed between them. Something real and warm and… _certain_. It was a promise. A goal. And they were going to see it to the end.

 

He wanted to ask her the same question, but he knew the answer already. She wanted _peace_ . And she wanted _him_ , for some reason he’d never wrangle. And she hadn’t really thought any more on that than he had. Any future would be forged together, when all was said and done, and that’s all he ever really needed with her.

 

+++

 

_“He said I'm gonna buy this place and burn it down_   
_I'm gonna put it six feet underground_   
_He said I'm gonna buy this place and watch it fall_   
_Stand here beside me baby, in the crumbling walls_   
_Oh, I'm gonna buy this place and start a fire_   
_Stand here until I fill all your heart's desires_   
_Because I'm gonna buy this place and see it burn_ _  
_ Do back the things it did to you in return”

 

\-- “A Rush Of Blood To The Head”, Coldplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I’m sorry. 
> 
> Not only did I have other projects that distracted me, but between family drama, my own health issues, vacations, husband being home and cutting into my solitude, it’s a wonder that I got this chapter out at all. 
> 
> Huge shout out goes to Justwanderingneverlost for the mood board, and of course to my lovely beta HardlyFatal for the once over. 
> 
> And of course, thank you to the Tarts, for constantly soothing my nerves and generally being sweet angels. 
> 
> Also, I’m dedicating this chapter to JalenMara. Her thirst helped motivate me to finish this sooner than initially planned. You’re the best reader a girl could ask for, love. 
> 
> About the Native American influence: I felt pretty disingenuous writing a tale, even if it’s just a fic, that takes place in Montana without any sort of acknowledgement of the native people there and the wide-reaching impact they have on life in that state. I consulted with sparkles59 (a Native American) and did lots of research to make sure I got things right. The last thing I ever want to do is offend, so I hope I did a good enough job, though I know it will never be as good as I would like, as I am an outsider. If there’s anything you think I could do better, please let me know. 
> 
> I also thought it was important to include in this story, as Jon in canon was greatly impacted and shaped by his time with the Wildlings, a wildly different culture than the one he knew south of the Wall. I am not trying to make any sort of direct comparisons of the Wildings to native people, as many native people in modern day lead lives much like everyone else’s in this country, **but** they have tradition, knowledge, and culture that is rich and ancient and very, very different from the average American’s world view. They also face unique challenges and adversity that many cannot relate to as well. Spending roughly two months a year with a Native American family would influence our boy in much the same way. 
> 
> You can learn more about Flathead Reservation and the Kutenai people (and the other tribes that reside therein) here. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it. Our idiots are getting into the thick of it now. I also hope that you enjoyed my shameless references to West World (Dany’s bandolier-- I always thought Dany and Dolores had a lot in common) and _Contact_ (the ham radio call signs).
> 
> Let me know what you think. I’ve never really done anything remotely like this before— with all the gang stuff and “cloak and dagger shit” as Dany so aptly puts it. It is my sustenance! Stay tuned for a nice, fun Missoula trip where nothing bad happens and all is grand and merry ~~*cough*~~.
> 
> And come say hi on my tumblr @frostbitepandaaaaa!


	12. SUMMER, III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were a few more questions than there were for him, of the female-oriented persuasion. When was your last period? (Three weeks ago) Your last pelvic examination? (Three years ago) Do you have any problematic symptoms associated with your cycle? (Some cramps and bloating. Weepiness sometimes.) Is your cycle regular? (No, not really. More so lately, though.) Any chance you could be pregnant?
> 
> That last question hit him like a jolt, panic seizing him around the middle like a vise. He had never followed up on the “I think Missy has something I can take” plan that she had offered him after they’d fucked without a condom almost a month ago. He looked sharply over at Dany, who, to his utter terror, was hesitating, her lower lip between her teeth.

_ God,  _ these seats were uncomfortable. 

 

Jon shifted again, eyeing the cheap schoolroom clock on the wall. They’d been waiting nearly 40 minutes and he was already well past the limit of his patience. Plus, there were no fewer than  _ two  _ screaming babies sharing the cramped waiting room with them and another who was pleasant enough, but kept yanking at his hair from the seat behind him. His mother murmured tired apologies to him and Jon tried not to hold it against her, but he was starting to fantasize about visiting the nearest drugstore and buying a buzzer to shave it all off. Dany found it all extremely amusing.

 

At least  _ she _ seemed to be in higher spirits, sitting next to him with her bottom lip between her teeth, sketching out an unflattering caricature of the woman at the front desk on the back of some of the literature they were both given: “What is Consent?”, “Tips for Safe Sex”, “How to Talk About STDS”, “HIV: Getting Tested Before It’s Too Late”, “Family Planning: What You Need to Know” and on and on. 

 

No doubt sensing his eyes on her, Dany turned the paper toward him with a conspiratorial little grin that made his heart skip. 

 

Sketched out in some detail was a cartoon woman that looked a lot like the slug-lady from  _ Monsters Inc. _ , except she was wearing Batman scrubs and shouting  _ “We have a lot of patients, sir!”  _

 

Ten minutes ago, Jon had made the mistake of approaching the front desk to ask about the wait.

 

He snorted as she handed it over. “I think this might be the best thing you’ve ever given me.” 

 

It was her turn to snort. “Is that a compliment or a hint?” 

 

He laughed, folding the drawing up so he could tuck it in his wallet. “I’m gonna hang it on the fridge,” he said with all sincerity. 

 

She smirked, opening her mouth to retort when the call of “Snow,” and “Storm,” came from the door opposite them. 

 

Being one of only  _ two _ such facilities in the entire state, the Planned Parenthood of Missoula offered ‘couple’s appointments’ in order to expedite service and maximize individuals treated. 

 

How bad could it be?

 

They stood and followed the nurse through the door and down a long hallway. They paused at a nurse’s station so she could take each of their vitals, typing away on a keyboard with nary a glance at them, all her motions very harried and smiles stiff-- not that Jon blamed her. If the packed-out waiting room was anything to go by, this place was busy as hell from open to close every day.  

 

The nurse lead them into a sparse exam room and informed them that the doctor would be in momentarily before hurrying out the door. 

 

“Quite a way to kick off a holiday,” Dany chirped as she took a seat. 

 

“Aye,” he agreed. He had decided that getting the clinic visit out of the way first was the best course of action. He looked around at the many…  _ detailed _ posters on the walls as he sat next to her. “Lovely artwork, too,” he said as he waved to the one directly in front of them, titled,  _ Chlamydia: The Warning Signs. _

 

“Mm,” she hummed, nose turned up, a smile fighting its way onto her face as she tried to keep up the act of ‘snooty art critic’. “Fantastic lighting on the testicles.”

 

That got him. He doubled over in his chair, laughing till tears formed. Dany was right there with him, clutching her stomach and wheezing. It was nice. To be able to laugh so heartily after all the shit they had been through in less than 24 hours. 

 

This would be a fun trip. One they (and especially she, he hoped) would remember for quite some time and look back on fondly. A break from the worries of the world and the ghosts of both their pasts. He’d make sure of that. 

 

Chuckles subsiding, he leaned back into his seat with a sigh. 

 

“How awkward do you think this is gonna be?” Dany asked, sniffing, as she wiped running mascara from the corners of her eyes.

 

Jon shook his head. “Feels like a hundred years ago when I was here last, and that was by myself. So, I really can’t say.” He shrugged. “Probably awful.”

 

She sighed, resting her cheek on his shoulder. He smiled and slung his arm over the back of her chair to make more room for her. “It’ll be nice to get this over with, at any rate.”

 

He hummed his ascent, leaning his head against the wall as they settled down to wait yet again. 

 

The door opened after only about five minutes, and in walked a pale and beautiful woman, with an oddly penetrating gaze as it swept over them both. Her dark red hair was pulled into a tight bun at the top of her head and she wore a rather large… amulet at her neck. She looked something like a witch.

 

Never a dull moment in Missoula. 

 

She stepped forward, offering her hand. “Mr. Snow, Miss Storm,” she greeted with a handshake for them both. “I’m Dr. Volan, but you may call me Mel.” 

 

Dany and Jon both murmured their “nice to meet you”s as Dr. Volan logged into her computer, making small talk, fielded mostly by Dany. Jon had never been very good at pleasantries. 

 

“Now, before the actual tests,” the doctor began briskly, “I need to ask you both some questions. They may seem intrusive, but they are necessary for us to gather accurate sexual histories for the both of you, and it’s very important for you to answer honestly.” Jon felt his stomach turn over. He was never one for speaking about such things, even to a doctor. 

 

Dr. Volan rolled towards them on her little wheeled stool, clipboard and pen in hand, an easy expression on her face. “Some will pertain to the both of you and your sexual history together, and some will be quite individual. Are we all set to begin?”

 

They both nodded mutely with a shared glance. 

 

“How many years have each of you been sexually active in total?”

 

Jon had to think a bit, counting backwards in his head. “Twelve,” he answered.

 

“Ten,” Dany supplied. 

 

Dr. Volan ticked their answers off on her clipboard. “And how long have you two been sexually active together?”

 

“Uh,” Jon offered unhelpfully, feeling extremely awkward now. Time had sort of been a blur, lately. He felt as if they had been together for years and a matter of days all at the same time.

 

“About a month,” Dany said.

 

_ Jesus Christ a _ month? _ That’s it? _

 

“Actually,” Dany went on, biting her lip with a blush. “Well,  _ two _ if you count all… sexual acts.”

 

Dr. Volan quirked an eyebrow. “And is this a sexually exclusive relationship?”

 

“Yes,” they both answered. 

 

_ Scribble scribble. _ “Any form of birth control?”

 

“Condoms.”

 

“And in addition to testing, you’d like to discuss alternative forms of birth control?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” Dany answered. 

 

Dr. Volan sighed, a little satisfied smile on her lips. “It’s nice to see a young couple being so responsible.”

 

Jon would hardly categorize himself as “young”. He was nearly 30, but he supposed, comparatively, it was true. 

 

“Now,” Dr. Volan continued, “on to the tougher questions.” She looked down at her clipboard. “Mr. Snow, let’s start with you.” Jon quailed, not liking the weird, hungry smile that flashed on her lips as she turned to him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Dany looking from him back to the doctor with her eyebrows raised so high he almost laughed. “About how long ago was your last act of intercourse with a person other than Miss Storm?”

 

Jon felt his mouth go dry, cursing himself again. He’d never told her about Val. To be fair, he and Dany had never really had “The Talk”... outside of their respective long term relationships. Val was hardly worth mentioning, but still.

 

“About a year ago,” he answered, voice steadier than he assumed it would be. “Almost to the month.”

 

He chanced a look at Dany. She wore an unreadable expression and that only served to make him even more uncomfortable. 

 

“And did you practice safe sex?” Dr. Volan went on. 

 

“Yes,” he answered. “Condoms.”

 

Dr. Volan nodded, scribbling again. “And how many sexual partners have you had in the past five years?”

 

“Three.”

 

Her eyebrows shot up. “Including Miss Storm?”

 

“Uh, yes ma’am,” Jon answered, taken aback. 

 

She ticked it off on her clipboard, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “And can you recall how many partners you’ve had in total?”

 

“Four,” he answered without hesitation. Ros. He’d forgotten about Ros, too. But that had been so brief and so fucking long ago it might as well have been another life. 

 

“Four?” Dr. Volan questioned. 

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

Again, she looked back to her clipboard, incredulous. 

 

What the fuck was going on? He knew four might be a bit… below average. Not so much so that it was enough to strike a sexual health doctor speechless. He had no idea how to feel about that.

 

Beside him, Dany was very still and was very pointedly avoiding his eyes. He had no idea how to feel about  _ that _ either. 

 

“When was your last STD test?” she continued after a pause. 

 

“Nine, maybe ten years ago.”

 

“Any reason to believe you may have or been exposed to an STD?” 

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

“Have you ever engaged with multiple partners at once?”

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

She quirked an eyebrow, but didn’t look at him as she continued. “Have you ever had anal sex?”

 

That threw him for a loop. “Um, yes ma’am.”

 

“With or without a condom?”

 

He almost,  _ almost _ audibly groaned, his discomfort reaching the intolerable. He could feel his ears burning. “Without.”

 

“Received anal sex or engaged with a same sex partner?”

 

“No, ma’am.”

 

“Have you ever received oral sex?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Given?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“And did you use a condom or dental dam during oral sex?”

 

“No, ma’am.”  _ The fuck was a dental dam? _

 

“Very good,” Dr. Volan chirped with a flourish of her pen, a motion of finality. Jon inwardly sagged in relief. That had been far worse than he had initially imagined. “Miss Storm, your turn.”

 

Dany shifted in her seat, looking paler than usual, and Jon was starting to think that his decision to book a couple’s appointment may have been somewhat... misguided. He had figured in and out, get it done quickly so they could move on to the good stuff, but, well...

 

Dr. Volan went through the same motions as she had with him, and Dany gave almost exactly the same answers that he had. 

 

Even the number of sexual partners she had had in the last five years. 

 

At least they were both guilty of failing to mention a past lover or two. He allowed himself a sigh of careful relief, leaning his head against the wall.

 

There were a few more questions than there were for him, of the female-oriented persuasion. When was your last period? (Three weeks ago) Your last pelvic examination? (Three years ago) Do you have any problematic symptoms associated with your cycle? (Some cramps and bloating. Weepiness sometimes.) Is your cycle regular? (No, not really. More so lately, though.) Any chance you could be pregnant?

 

That last question hit him like a jolt, panic seizing him around the middle like a vise. He had never followed up on the “I think Missy has something I can take” plan that she had offered him after they’d fucked without a condom almost a month ago. He looked sharply over at Dany, who, to his utter terror, was hesitating, her lower lip between her teeth. 

 

Just as his head started to spin, alarms going off in his brain, she answered with a tiny “no” that had both him and Dr. Volan looking at her with concern. 

 

Dany took a steadying breath, squared her shoulders. “I was married for three years,” she said, “and we tried, but I never got pregnant.”

 

Dr. Volan nodded thoughtfully, making a note on her clipboard. “Were you ever tested?”

 

Dany shook her head. “No, I wasn’t. And neither was my ex-husband.” 

 

Dr. Volan paused, regarding her carefully, before crossing her arms and leaning closer to her. For a moment, Jon felt as though he were intruding-- a moment of female intuition and camaraderie where Jon was not wholly welcome. “We offer fertility testing, too, Miss Storm, if that is a concern you have,” she offered gently.

 

Dany hesitated, looking to her hands. Jon wanted to reach out and comfort her, somehow. There was a familiar wrinkle between her brows that he knew well. She was hopelessly conflicted. Torn between the allure of some closure, or even relief, and the possibility of an answer she did not want manifested in ink and paper. 

 

But this was for her and her alone, so he kept it and his hands to himself. He wasn’t going to flatter himself— this was about  _ her _ body and  _ her _ future and she deserved the truth no matter if he was included in those plans or not. This had nothing to with him.

 

“Yeah,” she finally answered, “yes, I think I’d like to do that.”

 

“Very well, Miss Storm,” Dr. Volan replied with a satisfied smile. “We will get that arranged.” She turned in her stool, pinning Jon with a sudden, sharp look. “And what about you, Mr. Snow?”

 

He almost choked in shock. “What about me?” 

 

The woman blinked at him, as if it were obvious. “Would you also like to get tested?”

 

“Uh,” he stammered, not at all prepared for this question. 

 

“I know that children may be farther in your future,” she went on, as easy as you please, “or maybe not at all, but getting it done now can save you some heartache and frustration down the road.”

 

Dany was sitting so stiffly in her seat beside him she seemed made of stone, offering him no life lines, no aid whatsoever. He _knew_ , in the faltering rational half of his brain, that getting a test was no skin off his nose, would just be a way to provide some truths about his own body. 

 

But it suddenly felt very, very much about  _ them _ now. 

 

Jon cursed himself again. It was a subject that had never once been broached, not that he could really blame her… or himself, for that matter. With circumstances the way they were, and life fashioned as it was, it was just not something that could be discussed-- at least for the foreseeable future.

 

But this did not stop his heart from hammering in his throat, realizing just how woefully unprepared he was in the face of it.

 

If he refused, would Dany think him some asshole who thought only women were to blame for fertility problems? Would she think he didn’t want children? Was that a… deal breaker for her? He wasn’t even sure of the answer to that himself. And if he accepted? Would she assume he wanted kids and then freak out, decide this was all too much for her?  

 

“Um, sure. Yeah,” he found himself saying.  _ Solidarity,  _ he thought. Better than the alternative. Though, it could prove disastrous if wildly disparate results were returned. He felt a bit sick at the thought, swallowing down the sudden desire to back out of it immediately.  

 

“I think that’s a wise choice,” Dr. Volan said with a smile. She turned to Dany, a knowing smirk on her face. “Looks can be… deceiving, after all,” she said somewhat conspiratorially as she threw a suggestive glance his way. 

 

Dany’s eyebrows shot straight into her hair as Dr. Volan bid them farewell, informing them that a tech would be in shortly to administer the STD screenings (fortunately, in separate exam rooms). 

 

After the door had clicked closed, Dany turned her face toward him, eyebrows still raised dramatically, shaking her head in astonishment. “I, quite literally, can’t take you anywhere.”

 

+++ 

 

“So, I guess I’ll start,” Jon began after they had pulled onto the main road that would take them into downtown. There was a cheap motel that was fairly decent just south of the city center. He’d stayed there with his siblings a time or two during their off-season, weekend trips to Missoula. He just hoped that they had some vacancy. Summer was always a busy time for the town. 

 

Dany sat beside him, tense, picking at the strip of medical tape on the inside of her elbow.

 

“Her name was Val. She was a seasonal worker for the ranch. Had been for years.”

 

“Had been?” she questioned.

 

Jon cleared his throat, turning the Mariner’s game down on the radio. “Yeah, she… did not renew her contract after roundup last year.”

 

Dany looked over at him, her expression vaguely knowing and worried all at once. “So, I take it that it did not end well?”

 

Jon shook his head. “It didn’t end well for  _ her _ , specifically. There was nothing really to end on my part.” He inwardly winced at that, the callousness snapping back in his face and stinging a litte. “That… came out wrong.”

 

“I’m guessing she may have felt more for you than you did her.”

 

“Aye, something like that,” he returned, just a bit relieved that she seemed to be at least one step ahead. Not that he should have been surprised. “She started working for us about four years ago, and she made her feelings about me very clear almost immediately.” He sighed heavily, the memories burdensome, dredged up after being so long buried. Especially now, at the brink of their first get away together. “But I just… never felt that way about her. Don’t get me wrong… I admired her. She was a great cowgirl and wicked smart, but it just wasn’t there for me.”

 

“That’s strange,” Dany said, head tilted to the side. “Sounds like your type.”

 

“My… type?” he laughed. He never much liked that word. There were blood types and coat types for cows and horses… how did that word even remotely apply to a person? “And what is my type?”

 

Dany shrugged and turned her face away. 

 

Jon paused, hoping that maybe she would shed some light on this revelation, but she simply turned back to him and nodded. “You were saying?” she prompted.

 

He shook his head with a huff, exasperated. “She backed off once Ygritte and I made it official, to her credit. She and Ygritte were friends, and she continued working for us, was as pleasant and professional as ever. I thought that she had gotten over it.”

 

“But she hadn’t.”

 

“No,” he said flatly. “After Ygritte died… I was in a pretty bad place. I was pretty depressed. Drinking a lot. Lonely.”

 

Dany looked out the windshield, her cool expression telling him that she already knew the rest of the story. 

 

“It was really fucking dumb, Dany. I hate that I did that to her.” He took a great, steadying breath, the memory of his weakness making him feel wretched. “Luckily I came to my senses. I stopped it after only two weeks. She finished the season and told Sansa she wouldn’t be back.”

 

There was a small, thick silence before he felt her fingers curl over his own, resting on the gear shift.  _ It’s alright. _

 

He lifted his hand and placed it on her thigh, so fucking relieved that she didn’t hate him he was a bit light headed. 

 

“People do things they wouldn’t normally do when they’re grieving, Jon,” she offered gently. “I know from personal experience.” 

 

He shook his head. “I still feel like an asshole.” 

 

“A true asshole wouldn’t admit to that,” she pointed out with a little smile.

 

He laughed, a fierce heat blooming under his heart, growing sweet and painful. How the fuck did she do that? Just make everything… better? “Aye, I guess you’re right.”

 

She squeezed his hand and puffed out a breath. “Well, I suppose it’s my turn.” 

 

He cleared his throat, his nerves jangling in warning. He had never been a jealous sort of person. It was hard to be jealous when you felt like you deserved very little, after all. Besides, even if he  _ was _ , she was a beautiful, self-possessed woman who by all accounts seemed pretty secure in her sexuality.  _ Of course _ she would have fucked other people after her husband and before him. 

 

“His name was Daario. He was a bouncer at a club I worked at in New Orleans. It was a little like what happened with you,” she began, smiling bitterly. “Only, it was kind of… opposite roles.” 

 

He looked over at her, perturbed. “What?” he exclaimed. “He wasn’t into  _ you? _ ”

 

Her smile turned into something more warm and happy as she blushed and shook her head. “He  _ seemed  _ to be at first,” she corrected. “He was there for me, all handsome and dangerous... and I was fresh on the run, a new widow, very fucking confused and feeling very broken and undesirable. He gave me all the validation I needed and then some.”

 

God, why was he so pissed off at a guy that he didn’t even know existed until three minutes ago? “But that… didn’t last?” 

 

She shook her head, biting her lip. “No. Turned out to be the asshole I had always kind of suspected him to be.” She leaned her head against the back of the seat with a heavy sigh. “He cheated on me after about four months, and I had the good sense to get the hell out of there.”

 

He cursed. “What greedy fuck cheats? And on a woman like you?” he blurted, now so hopping mad he had to tear his hand from her grip and curl it around the steering wheel to steady himself. 

 

There was such a long silence, that it pulled him from his idle seething after a few moments. He looked over at Dany, who was gazing at him with a dark, hungry expression that instantly sent a jolt right to his groin. 

 

“What?” he asked somewhat weakly. 

 

“You need to get us to that motel, old man, before we get a ticket for public indecency.” 

 

+++ 

 

Turns out, the motel had been bought. Some hipster couple had fancied it up-- but not  _ too _ much. The Clermont Motor Lodge, once shabby and on the verge of derelict, was now thoroughly cool.

 

Normally, Jon’s old fashioned sensibilities would have balked at such a transformation. There was a certain  _ charm _ to stale cigarette smell and an ice dispenser you had to kick in just the right place for it to work. Or in the kindly, gap-toothed prostitute that liked to prowl the parking lot looking for conversation, free cigarettes, and potential Johns with equal fervor.

 

But now, as he hastily unlocked the door to their room with a very horny woman hanging from his neck, he couldn’t be more pleased that the bong-water stained carpets had been pulled up and paved over with bamboo floors. That the chipped, garish green paint had been replaced with some sort of funky wallpaper he did not have the mind to notice right now. 

 

Door closed and bags tossed unceremoniously in the plush, mid-century lounger next to the window, Dany pounced, shoving him into the door with a  _ ‘thunk’ _ as their mouths crashed together. 

 

He responded in kind, not wasting any time as his hands roamed from her hips to the perfect curve of her ass. He dug his fingers in, relishing the feel of it, how it couldn’t quite fit in his hands.  _ God _ , he’d never get enough.

 

When he thought on it later, he would discover that the past 28 or so hours had been the longest they had gone without fucking while in each other’s company. 

 

Dany dug her teeth into his lip before pulling away to get at the skin under his ear, right at his jawline. She knew exactly what she was doing. 

 

He couldn’t help the moan that bubbled up from the middle of his chest, the twitch of his fingers on her hips, his responding nip at her own spot-- right above the slope of her neck and shoulder, the left side most especially. 

 

She fucking  _ whimpered _ , the sound of it ricocheting in his ears and straight to his cock, already hard and straining in his jeans. 

 

Even then, he was not quite satisfied, something wild and primal swirling in his blood. Every threat that had advanced from the shadows, every ghost that had floated up from the ether-- he wanted to banish them. Wanted to paint unknown glyphs of protection over every inch of her with his tongue. 

 

He sunk his teeth in deeper, tasting the salt on her skin, the arousal that simmered below crackling like electricity on his tongue. 

 

_ Mine _ . 

 

She made a sound he had never heard from her before-- or anyone, for that matter. Something like a gasp and and a sob and she sealed herself against him, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, her legs watery against his own. 

 

It was so fucking sexy he had to slam his eyes shut, get ahold of himself. It was if she had just thrown a lit match on a lake of gasoline. 

 

He brought his hands to her ass again to support her as he walked her to the bed. 

 

Dany fiddled with his belt and fly the whole way, groaning against his mouth in frustration. He released her from his grip reluctantly, tearing his jacket off without pausing from their kiss. He brought his hands back to her hastily, as if the separation had been too much to bear. His palms traced the lines and slopes of her jaw, her neck, memorizing their geography forever. 

 

Her hands dove under his shirt, nails scraping deliciously over his abdomen, his back, forging new paths of pleasure over the whole of him. He tangled a hand in her hair and tugged so as to find more skin to taste, no real gentleness to it, his restraint already unraveling. He went for her neck again, and her knees gave way-- her nails now truly finding purchase in the flesh of his shoulders as she struggled to stay upright. 

 

_ Mine. _

 

He’d have marks to show for it tomorrow, and the thought sent him spinning clean from the earth. He wanted more, wanted her to brand him with her touch and her scent. Wanted her to feel how thoroughly he belonged to her. 

 

His hands flowed upwards under her shirt, shoving her bra up and over her breasts, his hands too eager for the feel of them to attempt to properly be rid of it. He cupped them roughly, rolled her pebbled nipples under the heel of his palms, pinched and flicked until she seemingly could withstand it no longer.

 

She pushed at his chest and he broke away from her, blinking dazedly. She yanked her shirt off, unclasped her bra, started clumsily undoing her pants. He got the hint and began undressing himself as well. No time for slow, tender disrobings. 

 

Before Jon knew it, they were both naked, and the seal of their bodies, laid bare and borderless, felt like a circuit had been completed. A wave finally meeting its shore. 

 

She was collapsing within his arms, pulling him down into her gravity. He went willingly. He’d follow her anywhere-- barefoot and blind as a fawn. 

 

They landed on the bed in a tangle of limbs, mouths dislodged for only a moment before finding each other again. He had to break away, curse into her temple, when he felt her take hold of him, fingers wrapped tight and eager around his cock, stroking up and down, slow and savoring. She pressed her lips to his jugular and hummed her pleasure straight into his bloodstream. 

 

Some clarity managed to filter through his sex-addled brain, and he rolled off her to reach into his pants pocket, rumpled on the floor, and pulled out his wallet and divulged a condom. 

 

He was almost too distracted to notice-- having to haul his brain back to earth long enough to concentrate on putting the damn thing on-- that she had rolled onto her front, had lifted her ass into the air on wide-spread knees, was looking at him wickedly through a silver mop of hair from over the crook of her elbow.

 

_ Holy fuck. _

 

They had never… she hadn’t ever expressed a desire for it, and on the one occasion he had tried, she had frozen up. He had never-- and  _ would  _ never-- attempt it again until she gave the word and he hadn’t been so sure that that would ever happen. Someone had hurt her deeply enough that not even he could reach there to scrub it away. 

 

His heart fucking stopped. He rolled to his side, took up her precious face between his hands and kissed her fiercely. He broke away, placed his brow upon her own. “Dany…” 

 

“Jon,” she returned, her face so soft, her eyes bright and alive and--  _ fuck _ . 

 

She leaned closer and kissed him again, the energy behind it feverish and wanting, the hand in his hair tightening, possessive. 

 

_ Mine. _

 

His need came roaring back, slamming into vein and fiber like a shot of adrenaline. He brought himself to his knees and shuffled behind her. His chest was heaving with desire, and his wracking breaths only served to fill his lungs with the sweet smell of her, musky and warm and dulcet. 

 

She was glistening as she brought her creamy legs closer together, her delicious cunt on full display, pink and perfect and ready for him. 

 

He reached for her with shaking limbs, cupping her ass in his palms, lifting one hand to give her a good slap that had her purring. He could resist no longer and he lunged for her, pressed his mouth fully upon her. 

 

He wanted to soak her up like radiation, drink in every drop of her until there wasn’t anything left of him, so he delved his tongue into her to attempt the impossible. He moaned, the taste of her sparking between his teeth, sending his body alight. He had to steady himself, take himself in hand to relieve some of the ache she had laid in his bones.

 

She gasped and yelped under his mouth, vibrating like a bow string. The heat of her was rising and rising and he couldn’t get enough. He dipped lower, finding her clit, driving his tongue up and under, his fore and middle fingers peeling her apart for him. 

 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” she finally breathed. “Jon…”

 

She was begging for mercy, but she wouldn’t find any with him, not now. He wanted her undone and boneless, sweat-slicked and panting within a tangle of bitten sheets. 

 

He kept on, bringing both hands to her ass to spread her apart, to knead and smack as he scraped his teeth over her clit, captured it in his lips and pulled, just ever so. 

 

She was close, shivering and keening into the wad of duvet she had pulled to her face. He pulled away, able to withstand it no longer. He straightened, centered himself, and was in her with one rough thrust that left him cursing. 

 

She was so fucking  _ hot _ , and  _ tight _ , tighter than he had ever felt her before. She was bearing down on him with an unbelievable pressure. He fell forward a bit, unsteady as his head spun, one hand curled around her hip, the other resting on the mattress as he tried to gather himself.

 

Dany was twitching beneath him, a whine kicking up in her throat. “Jon, fuck,  _ please _ …”

 

He obliged, taking her waist in his hands so he could pull her into him as he drove forward, the snap of their hips coming together in a filthy ‘ _ slap _ ’ that echoed in his head like a siren call. 

 

It didn’t take long. He had wound her up to just before the breaking point, and she shattered with a muffled wail. 

 

The sensation was otherworldly at this angle, her liquid heat soaking him root to tip, her cunt pulling him further and further into her warmth. He grunted, biting his lip hard to ground himself as she rode it out. 

 

He began to move again, and she cried out, her orgasm still rippling through her. He moved slower, this time— deliberate, dragging every inch of his cock along the length of her before pushing himself back in. Agonizing, incredible.  _ God _ , she felt so good. 

 

She was speaking a language of lust in the humid air, her own restraint long dried up. She threw her head back with a moan and began moving with him, backing her hips into him, picking up the pace in a desperate, silent plea for him to go faster, go deeper. 

 

He dropped his hands from her hips and stilled his thrusts, watching himself disappear within her in awe. She went mad then, cursing him as she sped up further, chasing yet another edge, selfish and shameless. 

 

He watched her, entranced, fucking herself on his cock without a care. He took one of her cheeks in hand and squeezed, slapped, his movements thoughtless and idle under her heady spell. Dany gave a breathless little  _ “yes” _ that knocked something loose in his brain.

 

Jon brought his hand down hard and she yelped, her hips pausing only a fraction of a second before she continued, undaunted, driven on by  profound desire. 

 

He could feel her tensing around him, could hear her breathing grow rough and ragged, a stream of babble leaving her mouth. 

 

He dug his fingers in her hips and yanked her against his own, the move rocking the both of them with its force. He wanted to be right there with her this time, wanted to feel her release around him, to catch her breath in his mouth, to feel her pulse jump under his teeth. 

 

Jon tilted his hips forward, pushed her more fully into the bed. He nudged her knees apart to make room, grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under her hips. 

 

He brought his thighs flush against her own and thrust into her, leaned forward on his hands above her. She shivered in delight, gasping his name like a mantra. He did it again and again, the angle exquisite, his cock grinding against the front of her, that most sensitive part of her. 

 

His movements grew faster, less measured and controlled. Dany seemed desperate beneath him, gasping and pushing back against him wantonly. Her ample ass crushed against his hips in the most delicious way. “Fuck me, Jon,  _ hard _ .”

 

It was a command he had no hope of defying. He fell to his elbows, chest sealed to her back, and lost himself in her fully. He pounded into her, harsh and uncaring, heedlessly chasing his own release that hid right beneath the surface. He could feel it, the pull in his balls, the electric surge from the very soles of his feet. 

 

He could feel something else, too. Something far more formidable and binding, as he circled her neck with his hand, turned her red face to his own and kissed her. 

 

Love, boiling up in his belly, racing into his blood, razor-edged and ruinous. 

 

Dany tore away from him with a strangled cry, and he was there too, vision gone starry, swimmy. She unspooled an instant before he followed, tumbled over that blind edge and he cried out into the flesh of her shoulder, hips twitching once, twice. 

 

_ Mine _ . 

 

+++ 

 

When Jon stirred, he was very confused for a disoriented moment. 

 

The watercolor cactus blossoms and bark beetles painted on the wall, the black and white photographs of dusty western towns, the globular sconce on the wall… where the  _ hell _ was he?

 

Then he remembered. Clermont Motel, renovated and hip. 

 

And then sweet flashes of what had happened as soon as the door had closed. 

 

His right arm was all pins and needles, Dany’s warm weight curled around it like a sleepy cobra. 

 

He smiled, his heart so full his chest ached. They had passed out almost as soon as they had finished with each other, Jon just managing to roll off her, too replete and sated to even curl around each other before sleep took them. Judging by the golden light that slanted through a chink in the velvet curtains, it was nearing early evening. 

 

He rolled toward her, brushed a hand over her cheek and she stirred with a happy little sigh. 

 

“Hey, cowgirl, wake up,” he murmured, enjoying her weak protestations far too much. 

 

“Mmm, five more minutes,” she whined, dragging herself closer to him. 

 

He rumbled a laugh, draping an arm over her shoulders. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “We have to get up, go see the sights. Be tourists.”

 

He felt her grin against his bicep. “Or we could just stay here.” She slid a finger down his chest. “Plenty of things to do.”

 

She already had his cock stirring, being the easy, foolish bastard he was for her. He had to take matters into his own hands, it seemed. 

 

He grabbed hold of her hips and flung her on top of him as she yelped in surprise. Then he sat up, kissed the tip of her nose, and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He waited for her to securely lock her ankles at his back before he stood, happily using her ass to balance her as she giggled into his shoulder. 

 

“Shower,” he said as he walked into the bathroom and placed her down on the black and white tiled floor. 

 

Dany pouted at him, before glancing over her shoulder at the object in question. “Looks like there’s room for two.”

 

The shower was, generally speaking, pretty standard fare for a motel room, but compared to the shower at his place, it was basically palatial. 

 

“You don’t have to tell me twice, cowgirl.”

 

She beamed at him before turning around and flipping the water on while he gathered some towels. Jon idly wondered if, during the renovations, the new owners had opted for new hot water heaters--  he remembered nearly always fighting with his siblings over who had used up all of the very finite hot water supply.

 

Shower properly steamy, they stepped in together, and it took all of four seconds for them to start kissing and groping. 

 

“I love  _ this _ ,” Dany purred into his chest as she dug her nails into ass. 

 

Jon could feel himself blushing, uncomfortable. In some dim, reasonable part of his brain, he knew that he must be attractive… he wouldn’t have caught her eye, or anyone else’s, for that matter, if he wasn’t… but it had been a long while since that aspect of himself had really mattered to him. Having it reaffirmed, by her, and often at that-- he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it just yet. “That makes two of us,” he replied, giving her own ass a good squeeze. 

 

She hummed, pleased, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Who’s first?”

 

“First?”

 

“To get a good scrubbing,” she clarified with a quirked brow. 

 

“Ah,” he said, feeling his cock come to attention.  _ Bathing? Really? _ “Well I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t offer to scrub you off first, seeing as how I went and messed you up.”

 

To his immense pleasure, she blushed. Dany was hard to embarass or fluster. He always felt it a victory, to be able to do it so deftly. “As much as I’d like to accept that… tempting offer, old man,” she began, maybe a bit breathless. “I think I’d like to start things off.”

 

She made a big show of bending over to gather the soap and washcloth and he admired her efforts gratefully. She straightened back up, a wicked tilt to her mouth that made his heart race. “Where to start?” she murmured to herself, tapping her chin with a finger as she regarded him thoughtfully, shamelessly. 

 

Jon was already getting light-headed and she hadn’t even touched him yet. All the blood was rushing to his cock and the heat of the water just made it worse. 

 

He tried to play it cool, though. “Well, I know of one spot that needs washing more than anywhere else,” he said with a smirk.

 

Dany snorted at that and leaned forward, pressing the sudsy cloth to his chest. “Oh yes, I think I just know the place.” There was a tense moment, her eyes peering up at him through wet lashes, pupils blown wide and thirsty.

 

But just as he broke, dipping his face to catch her up in a kiss again, she ducked away, lifting his arm to scrub at his armpit. 

 

“Oh, very funny,” he sing-songed as she laughed raucously at her own joke. “Honestly, how old are you?”

 

She blinked up at him innocently, still giggling as she lifted his other arm to repeat the motion. “I’ve been told I have an old soul.”

 

He hummed. “I doubt that seriously.”

 

She began scrubbing the tops of his shoulders, lower lip between her teeth in such deep concentration he had to resist laughing. She was giving him a good rub down, his skin coming away pink. 

 

“I like these too,” Dany observed quietly, running her free hand down the slope of them. 

 

He didn’t know quite what to say to that, so he simply looked to their feet, feeling equally overwhelmed and heartened by her adoration.

 

Jon had never been one to stay naked for too long, even before the scars. But after his accident, he made sure that there was always a tee shirt hanging near the shower so he could cover his ugly, marked-up chest before he could catch a glimpse of himself in the foggy mirror. Even when he was sleeping with Val, he kept some sort of cover close, some sort of disguise. He hated it. Hated this very real and very permanent part of his body.

 

He hadn’t really thought of it till now, with Dany running the cloth softly over those same, reviled scars, brushing loving, caring fingers over them as the spray of the water sluiced the suds away, that he had never really thought to do that around her. To hide himself. 

 

To keep himself from her.

 

Dany wandered lower, rubbing circles over his abdomen, dipping awfully close to his cock that was still stiff and wanting between them. 

 

But she wasn’t going to make it that easy on him. Jon got the distinct impression that she was aiming to get some revenge for what he had done to her just a few hours ago. His suspicions were confirmed when she grabbed his shoulders and pushed, silently telling him to turn around. 

 

He acquiesced and savored the little, sharp breath she took as she ran soapy fingers over his back, gave his ass a little slap that made him jump. She scrubbed and scrubbed, taking her time, relishing it. He both loved it and was impatient to get at her, have himself inside her until all he could hear was her breath in his ear and his name on her tongue. 

 

She reached his feet and the cloth was drawn away. There was a protracted pause that had him peering over his shoulder. He almost wished he hadn’t as she had knelt on the floor of the bathtub, lip between her teeth again, and a hand between her legs. 

 

He had to reach out a hand to lean against the slick wall, had to gather himself. “Dany…”

 

“Turn around,” she ordered breathily. 

 

jon allowed himself a second to be sure that his knees were able to operate properly, able to hold up his weight without support, before he obliged. 

 

Dany wasted absolutely no time, scooting closer in a splash of water and licking his bobbing cock from base to tip. 

 

_ “Fuck,” _ was all he could manage before his fingers were cleaving through her hair, almost more for support than anything else. 

 

She swallowed him down with little more ado, the moan in her throat reverberating through his very fucking marrow and shooting into his bloodstream like an electric shock. 

 

She was like a woman possessed, mouth and tongue and hands working his cock and his balls so quickly and deftly he thought for a moment that she fully intended to shove him over the edge within only a few minutes. 

 

But he didn’t want that.

 

“Dany, fuck, you gotta--”

 

Her mouth came off him with a ‘ _ pop _ ’ that seemed to echo in the bathroom like a gunshot. She scrambled to her feet, a bit shaky and unsteady herself. He pulled her closer so she wouldn’t fall. 

 

Dany brought her fingers to his mouth, and he thought his heart might actually up and quit. Her smell was intoxicating and wonderfully, unbelievably familiar. The knowledge that she had conjured it with her own, knowing touch while she had his cock in her beautiful mouth was almost,  _ almost _ too fucking much for him to bear. 

 

He took her index between his teeth, licked the taste of herself off it without taking his eyes from her own. She gasped harshly, her knees going wobbly. “Jesus Christ, Jon, get us out of here and fuck me.”

 

He didn’t need telling twice. 

 

He hastily shut the water off, stepped from the tub and almost tripped over the towel he had laid down, now utterly soaked from their careless antics in the shower. He tried to break his lips away from her own as little as possible, but it proved more and more difficult as they shuffled through the bathroom door and to the bed. 

 

He spread a few towels over the bed, not wanting to dampen the sheets… although, there  _ was _ a laundry room upstairs, so it wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

 

Towels spread and condom secured, Jon basically threw Dany onto the bed where she landed in a breathless heap, reaching for him. He lowered himself over her, drinking from her mouth as if he could simply swallow her up and carry her with him forever. 

 

She was whining below him, her hips pushing themselves along his length, spreading her wetness over his cock deliciously. 

 

He growled, biting down hard on her shoulder and she ground to a halt with a little strangled breath. With Dany still and helpless against him, he took his chance, flattened a hand at the small of her back to steady her, and thrust himself within her with a grunt. 

 

Her nails clawed into him, into his scalp, into his shoulder, trying to get him closer, closer. He buried his face into the crook of her neck, something like a sob escaping him, coming from deep within. He was already dangerously close, her heat and pressure and scent and  _ everything _ coalescing into a potent cocktail within him, taking hold and dragging him under. 

 

Jon hadn’t noticed that he had stopped moving until Dany tugged at his wet hair, lifted his face so that she could look at him, could scrape away the damp, webby tresses from his brow. She smiled at him, something sad about it, something so fucking loving and amazing and terrible that he just had to kiss her again. 

 

She fed him a moan and he picked up the pace, his thrusts long, slow, luxurious, savoring every bit of her he could reach. She locked her ankles at his back, bringing her hips against his own with each sway, staying as close to him as she possibly could. 

 

And just like that, he got lost again, thoroughly distracted by her mouth, her breasts, and she groaned and hissed in appreciation under him. Their hot, slick skin slid together deliciously, their breaths blazing humid trails over each other’s cheeks and necks and chests. 

 

Jon trailed his hand southward, impatient to have her break apart around him, and snaked a hand between their sealed bodies, pressed a thumb through her folds, soft and wet and so very hot. 

 

Dany gasped, cursed, writhed, and then she was pushing at his shoulders with an impatient growl, her hips grinding down on his own in a move he knew well. 

 

He relented, taking her hips into his hands and rolling onto his back, feet flat on the floor as she straddled him with her own feet dangling over the edge of the bed. She got this way sometimes, when her climax was close enough to taste, but she wanted to be the one to do it. She’d claw and spit until he let her take control… and usually he’d resist more, torment her a bit, but he was so fucking lost within her right then he didn’t have the strength to deny her.

 

She braced her hands on his chest, her back arched like a sphinx, eyes looking down at him hooded and hungry, and she began moving. 

 

Jon grabbed hold of her, more as an anchor than anything, not wanting to come right then and end it all. His fingers dug into her hips, flowed up the curve of her waist, the basket of her ribs. His thumbs flicked over her nipples. He brought a hand down to her ass and squeezed, slapped, egging her on. 

 

She gasped, her hips picking up speed. She pitched forward, hands on either side of his head as she pressed her tits into his face. He grabbed at them greedily, laved at a nipple, pinched the other. He had discovered that her nipples were extraordinarily sensitive, were seemingly wired straight to the core of her. 

 

Dany moaned and hissed and gasped above him, her hips moving at a frantic pace. Jon could feel her ass moving with the force of her movements and he couldn’t resist, reaching down to palm a cheek, slap it again appreciatively. 

 

She was so close, and so was he, quite suddenly. 

 

He brought his hand around to the front of her and pressed his thumb to her clit again. She cried out, ragged and desperate, as she pitched further forward, ground down on him and his thumb, searching for that delicious release. 

 

And she found it, going oddly still and silent. Jon always knew it was a particularly powerful one when she went quiet, her body so overwhelmed by sensation it seized up in a swirl of dopamine. He couldn’t hear it, but  _ fuck _ , he could feel it, her cunt shuddering around him, flooding with warmth and wet, her limbs quaking in the aftermath. 

 

He slammed his eyes shut and moved his hips, driving up into her without any real finesse or mercy as she fluttered around him, her orgasm not quite done with her. Usually, he’d let her ride it out, but he was feeling vicious and greedy just then, wanting her to go a little bit mad.

 

And she did. Dany wailed into the pillow, writhed so hard against him he had to pin her arms with his own to keep her from tearing herself away from him.

 

It was her turn to bury her face in his neck, to cry out her ecstasy into his skin as he hooked his hands over her shoulders and brought her down on him as he drove up, the snap of their hips loud and filthy. And then he crumbled, hard and fast and sudden, and was lost to the sea of his own crushing climax. 

 

They clung to each other for some time, shaking and steadying, breathes heavy and skin sticky. 

 

“I think,” Dany panted after a long, silent moment, “that we may have to try that shower again.” 

 

He laughed, bringing his arms more fully around her, to press her to him so thoroughly he’d never be able to tell where he ended and she began. 

 

“Aye,” he breathed, his heart full, his throat tight, “I never got to scrub you down.”

 

She lifted her head from his shoulder. She looked a fright-- though she was as beautiful as he had ever seen her. Her lips were red and kiss-bruised, her neck blotchy with beard burns and teeth marks, her damp silver hair just a mess. He brushed two knuckles over one of her flushed cheeks. She smiled.

 

“Well, let’s go remedy that, old man.” 

 

+++ 

 

Finally dressed and put together, they headed out to poke around downtown. 

 

All his plans for the trip were tomorrow. Tonight was free reign, and they rode together into their unplanned, unknown evening with the excitement and eagerness of children. 

 

They were properly famished, so they stopped in a local burger joint and sat on metal stools at a bar that faced an open garage bay and sipped on some local brews as they watched the passers-by. Dany pointed excitedly to a knot of tramps and train kids that shuffled past. One of them had an orange cat perched on top of her dirty trail bag. 

 

After they’d finished their meal, stuffed to the gills, they walked down the tree-lined, busy streets just as the streetlights began flickering on. 

 

Much to his satisfaction, the street performers were out in strength on this warm summer evening. They walked by a man with a trumpet, belting out “Spotieoatiedopalicious” to an appreciative crowd of coeds. 

 

They paused to watch an old man wearing a train conductor’s hat hammer out Led Zeppelin covers on a dulcimer as an old cattle dog lazed at his bare feet. 

 

An older woman with a nest of gray hair and a basket full of sage blossoms on her back interrupted their perusal of an old gramophone in the window of a closed antique store. “A dollar for a song for your lady, cowboy,” she said with a grin as she readied her battered guitar. 

 

Jon obliged, handing it over and the woman went into a beautiful rendition of “Blackbird” while Dany blushed and beamed. 

 

Song complete, the woman pulled a stem of sage blossoms from her basket and handed it to Dany with a bow. Dany clapped, elated, sniffing at the tiny, purple, lanceolate flowers. 

 

The woman nodded to him and wandered off, no doubt to search out more couples to cajole. 

 

And so they walked, her hand in his elbow, as she pointed and exclaimed about the funky little coffee shop blaring The Ramones from its open door that they just  _ had _ to stop in. He wasn’t usually one for fancy coffee drinks, but he let her buy him a mocha. It was delicious. 

 

Then there was the cluttered crystal shop that invaded his nose with the smell of patchouli and rock dust, where they wandered around in both amazement and amusement. Dany held a little green one out to him. 

 

“Says it cures forgetfulness,” she said with a smirk, obviously referencing their ill-fated picnic. 

 

Jon shook his head, feigning outrage. “How dare you?”

 

“Listen,” she laughed, “I’m just trying to help you, old man.”

 

He wasn’t one to believe in crystals and incense and all that hippie shit, but he bought it anyway, just so she could gloat and tease from beside him at the cash register. And so he could have a memento of this time to place on a shelf. The old wook behind the counter looked between the two of them, bewildered. 

 

Crystal purchased and nestled safely in his jacket pocket, they headed back out and eventually passed the open door of a very hip art gallery. Golden light spilled onto the sidewalk along with the sounds of babbling people and the distant thump of bass. 

 

Dany slowed to a stop, looking from the open door and back to him. He smiled and lead her inside. 

 

There was a ten dollar cover that Jon would have normally scoffed at, but the burly man on the stool inside the hall was staring him down and Dany was practically vibrating in excitement beside him. 

 

It was cacophonous inside. Between the creak of the old floorboards, the many voices, and the house music blasting from two huge speakers in the back, complete with some ink-sleeved DJ between them, it was nearly impossible to hear each other. 

 

“Man’s Best Friend” read the sign just inside the gallery. And all over the exposed brick walls were brilliant, Renaissance-like paintings of empty condom wrappers, crumpled porn magazines, stacks of money, bags of cocaine and weed, orange prescription bottles reading ‘Prozac’ and ‘Cialis’, half-naked, bosomy women and broad-shouldered men with huge bulges in their underwear. Still lives of vases filled with multi-colored dildos, anal plugs and beads spilling from cornucopias, riding crops and crotchless underwear bundled together like sheaves of wheat— all painted in pain-staking, beautiful detail. 

 

“Oh my  _ god! _ ” Dany exclaimed over the noise, her eyes wide, her mouth open and grinning in wonderment. 

 

Jon couldn’t stop laughing and staring, so Dany had to be the one to stop a passing server to grab them two gin and tonics. 

 

“You perv,” he shouted at her as she passed him his drink. “Where have you brought me?”

 

After they had pursued the perimeter of the gallery, talking (or rather yelling) snootily of which ones they would bring home as they sipped their drinks with their pinkies out, they exited into the summer night, faces sore from laughter. 

 

“I think I’m going to buy you the pussy fountain for your birthday,” Dany postulated— perhaps a bit too loudly, for an older couple looked at them scandalized as they walked past. 

 

He laughed, though weakly, something queer and oddly guilty churning in his gut. The painting in question, a lovely rendition of the Trevi fountain in Rome festooned with labias of all shapes and sizes jetting water, had been over four grand. Dany could probably  _ easily _ buy it, if she were so inclined, and never think twice about it. 

 

Jon wasn’t actually sure how much money Dany had, and knew that she had no access it to it as of now, besides. He was not the type of guy to protest a woman her money or independence. You couldn’t really do that out here even if you wanted to anyway. Most women would scoff at such unpractical behavior, but, on the other hand, Jon never thought he would be dating— and in love with— a woman whose wealth he could scarcely begin to fathom, even if he didn’t have an exact figure in his head. 

 

Most of the time he tried not to think about it, and most of the time he was successful, as it never really played a role in their relationship as of then. But, sometimes, it would worm its way in and set off a chain reaction of morbid thoughts within his traitorous brain. 

 

What would Dany do once this was all over and she had her money back? Why stay here with him in a little shack in the middle of nowhere when she could live basically anywhere she wished? Would she want  _ him _ , a rough-shod cowboy with barely anything to offer, to join her in a lifestyle he could not begin to imagine for himself? Would she really want him to be her so-called “kept man”? Would  _ he _ really want that, even if it meant he could be with her?

 

The thought bored a pit in his stomach. 

 

“Hey, cowboy,” Dany called to him, nudging him with her elbow. “You okay?”

 

“Mmhm,” he answered unconvincingly. 

 

Thankfully, he was saved from finding a suitable excuse for his reticence by the sound of music. 

 

They were about a block from a small park in the middle of downtown when the sound of trumpets, drums, and even an accordion filtered through the night. 

 

“Dany,” he said, tugging on her arm, his heart leaping. He had hoped they’d be out here tonight. “I know this band. They’ve played here for years. Want to check it out?”

 

Excitement lit her features as she heard the band pick up, the beat jaunty and joyful, a crooning voice joining in through the call of brass. She took his hand and he led them down the street and into the park. 

 

Under a fairy-lit gazebo was a collection of about six people, armed with an assortment of instruments. Arrayed in front of them were dozens and dozens of people, some swaying in the arms of a partner, others simply standing and savoring. 

 

They picked a place to stand and Jon threw an arm about her shoulders, elated to see that her eyes were alive with joy, that she was swaying with the march-like beat. He knew, somehow, that she would like it. The music was somewhat old-fashioned, but he knew that her heart lay closest to older things, much like his own. 

 

The band ended the song and the singer bowed to the warm applause, clutching a conch shell in his hands. They then swung into another upbeat tune, this time with bongos, keyboard and tambourine driving the melody. 

 

Dany was bouncing on her feet to the beat, seemingly outside her awareness. He smiled and pulled her into his arms. She gasped, before beaming up at him, almost in a challenging manner, and they began a lively, hip-swaying step-bounce. 

 

“Have you been practicing, old man?” she asked with a questioning eyebrow as the song ended and the band struck up yet another, this one much the same rhythm and mood. 

 

Jon grinned. He hadn’t. Music like this was just easier to dance to, he found. He wasn’t going to tell her that though. “Maybe I have.”

 

She huffed. “I don’t believe you.”

 

They danced for another song, this one sounding like it was straight from the streets of circa 1920s Paris, all brass and drums, accordion taking front and center. 

 

As the song drew to a close, they broke apart to clap their appreciation. He was just going to ask her if she wanted find a bar and grab a nightcap before heading back to the motel when the accordion wheezed back into action. This time it was slow, lovely, beautiful. 

 

Dany turned back to him, the fairy lights catching in her eyes, her hair a bit wild from the breeze, from the dancing. She was so goddamned beautiful. 

 

He stepped closer to her once more, grabbing up her hand and hip to sway slowly with her. The music swelled, a trumpet serenading sadly with the violin and drums. The singer crooned and Dany leaned her head against his shoulder. He bent his head closer to her.

 

_ “I try to imagine a careless life, _

_ Where the sunsets are all breathtaking, _

_ Breathtaking...” _

 

Jon had to close his eyes, her warmth and scent, the hope veined within the music, all proving too much, swelling in his weakened heart, reflecting everything he wanted for her. For them.

 

Dany felt it too, it seemed. She dropped his hand from hers so she could wrap both her arms around his neck, pull him closer as the music faded and the song ended. 

 

_ God _ , he was going to tell her. 

 

Every single hour since they had arrived in Missoula, since they had left Winterfell, since he had sent Tanner sprawling in the dust, since she had spilled her darkness out into the weak orange light of his porch light, they had been tearing down their walls faster than they could build them back up. 

 

And it all seemed so pointless now, with her warm and real against him. After she had thrown all caution to the winds and shared a smoke with him on an empty patio in the middle of February. After she had called him without a thought when the shadow of her past crept up on her one rainy Wednesday. After she had thrown herself in the crosshairs just a few hours ago, as much for him as for herself. 

 

He could feel it bubbling up in his throat, hot and heavy and powerful as she pulled away, looked up at him. 

 

She looked so fucking _ happy _ , so content to be here, with him. His throat was not large enough for everything, for all he felt. The words got stuck, got jumbled up, and all he could do was tip his mouth forward and kiss her. 

 

Dany pulled away, but didn’t go far. She pressed her brow to his own, tucked a hair behind his ear. “Wanna get out of here?”

 

He hesitated, wondering, questioning as to whether or not he should (or even  _ could _ ) try again, try to dredge those words up out of the frothing, turbid morass that was his brain at that moment. 

 

“Yeah,” he answered instead, maybe a bit relieved, a bit disappointed in himself as he took her hand and lead them away. The band was packing up and the audience was scattering. 

 

He’d tell her. Before they left this town and headed back to their regular old lives, he’d tell her. 

 

+++ 

 

But he didn’t tell her after they had fucked the next morning, though she was gorgeous and breathtaking with the new morning light in her hair and her chest heaving under the sheets. It was never advised to do that after sex, he knew (thankfully, not from personal experience, but rather from a harrowing tale as told by Robb). 

 

He also didn’t tell her over a plate of French toast and eggs at the local diner, thinking a declaration of such gravity should not be brought forth over an assortment of breakfast food, no matter how enthusiastic Dany was about said meal and how adorable she was as she wolfed down her bacon. 

 

He  _ definitely _ didn’t say it during their winery tour, as she sniffed and sipped at reds and whites excitedly, eyes dancing with delight. This was thoroughly  _ her _ thing and he wasn’t going to fuck it up by making it about him, or even just  _ each other _ . 

 

Dinner tonight. Perfect. What a better time to tell the woman that you loved that you did indeed love her so much that it caused you physical pain just to think about it? What could be more perfect than to tell her with a belly full of expensive wine and steak, dressed to the nines?

 

“You lied to me,” Dany said as they settled into the booth. “You said you weren’t going to spend a lot of money.”   
  
Jon cleared his throat, blushing a bit as he looked over the wine menu. He almost fainted at the prices. “Uh, well, maybe I went a little overboard,” he admitted, shoulders falling.   
  
“Jon, you know that I don’t…” She faltered, obviously trying not to offend him. He wasn’t broke by any means, but he wasn’t exactly a member of some elite, Old Money family, like she was. “The burger place we went to last night would’ve been fine.”   
  
“Dany–” he began, somewhat defensive, but the server came by just then to take their drink order. They both requested water for the time being. He looked back over to her, licking his lips. “I haven’t had the occasion to spend a lot of money in a long time. I want to do this, okay? I’m– I’m not trying to… live up to something I think you need, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not trying to compensate for something that I think I lack.”   
  
Truth was, he was maybe just a  _ smidge _ insecure about it. He’d been an insecure mess his whole fucking life, after all. And it was pretty difficult to just ignore the fact that she had lived in mansions and palaces her whole life and now spent most of her time in an old one-bedroom hunting cabin in the middle of nowhere.   
  
But that’s not why he brought her here, not even close. He brought her here because she fucking deserved it. 

  
Dany’s eyebrows lifted as she took a sip of water. “No, you certainly don’t need to compensate for something,” she said suggestively.   
  
He smiled, blushing furiously and maybe a bit besotted. “Thanks,” he said with a laugh. “Besides, I wanted an excuse to get you in that dress again.”   
  
Jon was continually astounded by how easily he could dismantle her fortifications sometimes. The sag of her shoulders and the little, knowing smile she tried to keep from him by lifting the wine list to her red face did something strange to him. He gulped down some water to distract himself. “You have an interesting talent for flattery, old man.”   
  
“Aye, and you have an interesting talent for driving me absolutely fucking mad, so…” He shrugged.  _ We’re even _ .   
  
She peered sardonically at him over the menu, pursing her lips and looking very put-out, even as her eyes sparkled with humor. “I take it back.”   
  
He barked a laugh, unsure if he’d ever get used to the weird, swirling feeling in his chest that she managed to conjure. “Fair enough.”   
  
The grin she had been fighting finally won out and she leaned forward conspiratorially, giving him an eyeful of her breasts pressed against the edge of the table. He tried his damnedest not to stare, though he knew she was doing it on purpose. 

 

“So, old man,” Dany said, “shall we spend entirely too much money and be the reckless youngsters we’re supposed to be?”   
  
God, he wanted to kiss her then. Kiss the red gloss from her lips and the little smirk from her face. He leaned back limply in his chair, hopeless. This was going to be a very long night if she kept looking at him like that. 

 

“Aye,” he answered, lifting his glass of water, “to being reckless.”   
  
The meaning was not lost on her. Recklessness was not something they were afforded very often, if ever. She beamed, clinking her glass on his own.

 

The remainder of the dinner was just about as perfect as he could have hoped. The service was as excellent as the food, and Dany had raved about the wine the sommelier picked out for them. He was sure to commit the vineyard and varietal to memory. 

 

Just one last thing. 

 

The server placed a French press and two warmed mugs in front of them, informing them that their dessert (a rice pudding with a pistachio praline that Jon was dubious about, but Dany had insisted upon) would be out shortly. 

 

Jon felt his heart kick up in his chest, knowing it was now or never (not really, but still), but not as much as it might have normally. He was warm and replete with food and perhaps a bit tipsy with the before-dinner Old Fashioned (Dany had teased him mercilessly) and the two glasses of wine. This would be easy… or at least,  _ easier. _

 

“Jon,” Dany began as she stirred in her raw sugar and cream into her coffee, just as he was figuring out what to say, how to go about it. Something in her face and in her tone made all thoughts and preparations dissipate from his brain as good as a mist in the sun. “What happens if the results come back and it’s... not good?”   
  


He furrowed his brow, totally lost. “What results?”

 

“To the fertility tests.”

 

Jon felt his blood simply leave him. “What?” he asked dumbly, but really, what else could he say? Were they really going to talk about… this?  _ Now? _

 

She sighed heavily, looking disappointed. “Don’t look so terrified, old man, it’s just a question.” She fiddled with her little coffee spoon, not quite meeting his eyes. “But, well… it's like like Dr. Volan said, right? Saves us a lot of heartache down the road if we just talk about it now.” 

 

Dany shifted in her seat, clearly panicking a bit, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. Jon got the distinct impression she had been picking at this particular bone since the clinic… perhaps longer than that. “I assumed that you wanted to get your own test done because you want children… at some point. And I get that it might not be with me, or whatever… especially because I might actually be--”

 

“I’ve never thought about kids, Dany,” he interrupted before she could brand herself as ‘infertile’ or even worse… ‘ _ barren _ ’. As if she were broken and needed fixing. He would not tolerate it it in his hearing. “It has truly never occurred to me.”

 

She looked a bit shocked at that. Jon couldn’t blame her, really. He had been planning to get married before he met her, and was pushing 30. It would make sense that most people his age and in his situation would have started at least  _ thinking _ about families and all that mess. 

 

But he had always been so fucking conflicted about it, he just chose never to think on it. Spare himself some grief, he figured. He had next to nothing to offer a woman, much less a kid. 

 

The idea of parenthood both scared the piss out of him and called to him, weirdly, but he was not (and perhaps never  _ would  _ be) in a situation in which he felt he could raise a child properly. He was a cowboy in a time when that particular profession was not only dying, but also led to nothing but bum knees and bum backs and little else. 

 

Jon was a man with no real plans, no real prospects, with only a truck to his name-- even his own goddamn house didn’t really belong to him. And with his father leaving everything to his wife, he would be waiting a long while to even get a small piece of Stark Ranch. 

 

And besides, Ygritte had never mentioned it, her heart belonging to the saddle, not the hearth, and true to form, he’d never asked. 

 

“I agreed to get tested because, I don’t know… I don’t want you to feel… singled out, I guess,” he explained somewhat lamely, swirling his spoon in his coffee, fidgety. 

 

Dany aimed a smile at him, small and warm, her eyes growing a bit overbright. “You are too charming for your own good, Jon.”

 

He snorted, his ears growing warm. He paused, licking his lips, not quite done yet. “But, Dany, it doesn’t matter what  _ I _ want. It’s about you. It’s about you finally getting the… the closure you’ve been waiting on for years. It’s not about me.”

 

She was very quiet and very still.  Something shifted in her expression and she bit her lip. “It is.”

 

“What?”

 

“It is, Jon. It  _ is _ about you.”

 

He felt his heart fucking flip over in his chest, his hands turn tingly in his lap. He knew, just as well as she, what lay hidden in her words, in her tone. She was protecting herself, as well as him, from future heartbreak. She was laying down a lifeline.

 

She wasn’t going anywhere, and she needed to know that he wouldn’t either, no matter what that fucking test revealed. 

 

“It’s not,” he repeated firmly. Her insecurity, her fear of him ever leaving her stoked a fierce, protective flame within him. All his nerves and anxiety were swallowed up by a tide of strange, loving anger. “It’s not, because you don’t have to worry about me, Dany. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere unless you ask me to. I’m in love with you and something tells me I always will be. Some fucking test isn’t going to tell me otherwise.”

 

He hadn’t even meant to say it. 

 

True, he had been planning to all day, but he had not meant to blurt it out so unceremoniously, in some heated entreaty. But something about the uncertainty in her voice, the small light of dread in her eyes as she had spoke made him…  _ mad _ . Made him want to vault over the table and gather her up so she would never doubt again. 

 

But, seeing as he couldn’t do that without making a scene and possibly getting them kicked out of a very fancy restaurant, he chose to just be out with it.

 

It was as if he had struck her. She sat across from him mute, pale, unmoving. 

 

“Dany—“ he began. It was his turn to start panicking. 

 

“Rice pudding.” The voice of their server shattered the tense air between them momentarily. She placed the dish down on the table and smiled at them. “May I bring you anything else?”

 

It took a second for Jon to find his voice and respond. “Uh, no ma’am, thank you. Just the check.”

 

She nodded and reached into her apron pocket. “Just for your convenience,” she said as she laid the check down on the table. “Take your time.”

 

With the server gone, Jon looked back to Dany. “Dany—“

 

“I’m in love with you too,” she cut across him, taking a sip of coffee. The words were spoken easily. As if it were simply the most effortless, most obvious thing in the world to articulate. 

 

And really, was that not what it was?

 

In his heart, in his bones, Jon had  _ known _ that. Could see it writ large and obvious on her face just as she probably could on his, but hearing her speak it out loud…  _ fuck _ it was as incredible as it was terrifying. 

 

Dany shifted forward, picking up her spoon and taking a bite of the pudding. She pointed it at him, and he thought of the dark bed of his truck, of passing a spork from hand to hand to eat a slice of blueberry pie. “Do you have any plans for us after this, old man? Because all I can think about right about now is going back to the motel room and making sure you know just how much.”

 

_ Fuck, _ he was half hard just at her words, at the mere thought. 

 

He cleared his throat, wondering if he should just lie. “Uh, yeah actually,” he confessed.

 

She raised her eyebrows, taking another bite of their dessert. He decided there was nothing else for it and dug in himself. It was fucking  _ delicious _ . 

 

“There’s this… bar,” he began, landing on the word ‘bar’ a bit awkwardly. It did not go unnoticed, for her eyebrows raised even higher. “Every third Saturday of the month they do a 50s/60s bop night. Figured… figured I’d take you there, seeing as though you love that music—“

 

“Damnit, Jon,” Dany interrupted with a shake of her head as she placed her spoon down. 

 

He looked at her, stunned. “What?”

 

“That sounds like a hell of a lot of fun and I kind of hate you right now for making me choose between that and just going back to the motel.”

 

“As much as I would love to take you back to the room and fuck you silly,” he said as nonchalantly as he could while he took another bite. He was grateful it was a modest serving. He could eat a bucket of this stuff. “I’ve had this planned for quite awhile.”

 

She leaned forward, arms crossed and face deadly serious. “Just one question,” she began, taking another heaping helping. “Is this ‘bar’ of the homosexual persuasion?”

 

Jon laughed, both at her phrasing and her ability to see straight through him. “Yes, it is.”

 

“Well, count me in, old man,” she said with a waggled eyebrow. “We can warm up with some dancing before the… work out later.”

 

Yes, he was very fucked. 

 

+++ 

 

“I’m going to go get us a drink,” Jon half-shouted at her as ‘Locomotion’ came to an end to a chorus of cheers from the crowd. The song had been a hit, the crowd on the dance floor going a bit wild. He was fairly sweaty and breathless and had somehow acquired a purple silk scarf around his neck. Dany, on the other hand, looked ready to dance into the wee hours. 

 

“Want me to come with you?” she asked, starting to sway her hips as ‘Baby Love’ started up. 

 

Jon shook his head, stepping closer and taking her up in his arms again, this song too much to resist. She laughed, her cheeks flushed, eyes dancing with so much joy he didn’t know if he’d ever get enough. 

 

They stepped into a lively sway, heads close, grinning like the fools they were, as the crowd of mostly old queens shimmied and shook around them. 

 

The song ended and Jon stepped away from her again, feeling like he was truly dying of thirst now. “I’ll be right back,” he repeated. 

 

Dany nodded, turning to a nearby man and shimmying along to ‘Iko Iko’. Dammit, he loved this song, too. 

 

“Jon,” she called to him over the music, just as he turned away. Her smile was… different. Something softer, adoring. 

 

“Dany,” he returned with a laugh. He leaned closer to her, hands falling to her hips. 

 

She brought her lips to his ear. “I love you.” 

 

He was rooted to the spot. He knew this. She’d told him as much just over an hour ago, but there was something about the casualness of it… they were free to say it, now. Whenever they wished, and something about that reality rocked him.

 

He kissed her, shameless, more brazen than he had ever dared before, perhaps a bit drunk and a bit happier and a bit  _ braver _ than he had ever felt in his life. 

 

The men around them ‘wooed’ enthusiastically, one of them dropping one of the cheap, plastic, felted fedoras on his head that Jon had refused at the door. 

 

“I’ll be right back,” he repeated when he broke away, and shoved his way to the bar as ‘Have Love Will Travel’ started up and the crowd really went into a riot.

 

Jon ordered a rum and Coke for Dany and a Miller Lite for himself (Dany would have an absolute fit when she found out, but  _ someone _ had to drive them back to the motel) and two waters from the bartender, who looked him up and down lavisciously.  

 

Jon found that he had to get used to such attention, and quick. He had politely turned down three offers of drinks already (much to Dany’s amusement). She had postulated that he would “do very well” as they had walked to the bar after their dinner. 

 

What he did  _ not _ expect was the weight of an arm draping itself over his shoulders that most certainly belonged to a woman. 

 

At first, he thought it was Dany, deciding to extricate herself from the heat and press of the dancefloor for a moment after all.

 

But when he turned his head, he was staring at a decidedly unfamiliar face. A willowy, auburn haired woman with a very confident smirk on her face. 

 

Jon stood up straighter, brushing her arm off of him. “Can I help you?” He tried to keep his voice level. It was entirely possible that she was just blitzed out of her mind and thought he was her boyfriend or something. He couldn’t really think of a better reason for her to be so fucking brazen. 

 

Her smirk widened as she leaned an elbow on the bar, still entirely too close. “I’m wondering if you’re here for the men, or for the women who like to come here for a good time without getting harassed.”

 

He accepted his drinks from the bartender with a nod. “Name?” the man asked, wanting to know what tab to put it under. 

 

“Snow,” he answered before turning to his unwanted visitor. “I’m not here for either.”

 

“Ah,” she said, walking her fingers up his chest. He was so shocked at her forwardness he didn’t know what to do at first. “So you’re here with a lady.” 

 

Jon took a step back from her, nearly backing into a patron and spilling his drink. “Yeah, I am,” he responded darkly, turning to leave. 

 

To his great shock and disgust, she stepped closer to him, blocking him from his escape. She pushed herself against his left leg without a care. “I don’t mind, if you don’t.”

 

_ What the fuck was up with women in this town? _ “I do fucking mind,” he growled, patience wearing thin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

 

The woman grabbed hold of his sleeve, yanking at him in such a way that he spilled nearly all of Dany’s rum and Coke over his arm. He cursed, looking from his arm to her in absolute bewilderment. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

 

“If you’re here with a lady, where is she, hmm?” she hissed in his ear. She had a hand on his chest, fingers curling aggressively into his shirt. 

 

Jon was on the verge of absolutely losing it. “She’s out there,” he answered as levelly as he possibly could, tilting his head towards the dance floor. 

 

She leaned her head on his shoulder and looked out towards the direction he had indicated. “That’s funny,” she said poutily, “I don’t see her.” 

 

He rolled his eyes, craning his neck to pick out Dany’s unmistakable hair within the mass of bouncing bodies as ‘He’s So Fine’ started up. 

 

Jon looked. And looked. He couldn’t find her. He couldn’t help the little kick in his chest, the dread slowly metastasizing in his gut. 

 

“She must’ve gone to the bathroom,” he said, more to himself than to the tart hanging off his arm. 

 

“Perfect,” the woman purred, “time for you to come with me.”

 

He turned towards her, his patience now thoroughly tapped. “I’m not going anywhere--”

 

He stopped short as he felt something very hard and very sharp press into his groin. She had pulled a fucking knife on him, was hanging off his shoulder, her mouth just inches from his ear. 

 

“Oh,” she said, the menace in her voice drowning out all other noise as she brought the knife up higher. “I think you  _ will _ be coming with me, Jon Snow.”

 

+++ 

 

_ “Hey hey hey, the end is near! _ __  
_ On a good day, _ __  
_ you can see the end from here. _ __  
_ But I won't turn back, now, _ __  
_ though the way is clear; _ _  
_ __ I will stay for the remainder.”

\-- “On A Good Day”, Joanna Newsom

 

+++ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, I do believe this is my longest chapter… ever? I apologize to my beta (the lovely and amazing hardlyfatal) and to you, my poor, poor readers. May your eyes stay moist and your necks refreshed. 
> 
> The band they’re dancing to in the park is a self indulgent insert of one of my favorites, Beirut. The song that causes Jon to get all emotional is “Scenic World”. I made a little YouTube playlist of of their imagined dance that you can listen to here (https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLHOXDkd8I3LDq_3S21tXBR1QPyYun1-D_) if you care to (and yes, it’s in order, do you think I’m a monster?).
> 
> Thank you again to not only the Tarts, but to everyone else in this wonderful, wonderful fandom. We are seriously blessed, y’all, and have some of the best, most supportive, effusive, talented, and amazing people to keep us going through the Long Night. Remember to hug a fellow shipper today! 
> 
> And, finally, to Justwanderingneverlost for her masterful moodboard, once again. 
> 
> But, in all seriousness, I do hope you like it. This was the chapter I was looking forward to writing most, and I had an absolute blast. I hope you liked it as much as I did writing it! It’s a bit self indulgent, but hey, this is fic, right? I’m allowed to do that every once in awhile. Please let me know what you think! (And sorry for the cliffhanger, ~~sort of.~~ )

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Thumbprint Scar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17461793) by [FrostbitePanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostbitePanda/pseuds/FrostbitePanda)




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